The Chair Beneath the Sal Trees

By Prajakta Hushangabadkar

The road into Kanha National Park did not hurry.

It curved through tall sal trees. Women walked home with bundles of firewood. Children waved at passing vehicles. Dust rose slowly and settled just as quietly.

The villages seemed to grow from the land itself. Mud houses painted in blue color. Courtyards swept clean. Grain spread out to dry in the sun, an old lady was often seen shooing her chickens, a lazy dog and Life moved at its own pace. And in almost every house we visited, there was one thing in common.

A chair. Blue or red, sometimes yellow, sometimes wood, sometimes metal, sometimes plastic. The moment my team and I entered a house, someone would disappear swiftly and return with a chair.

“Madam, chair pe baithiye.” They remained standing. I hesitated each time. Their logic was simple and pure: You are educated people. You deserve to sit on a chair.

Every single time, I felt conflicted.

If I sat on the chair, I felt elevated, separate.

If I tried to sit on the floor, they felt uncomfortable, almost hurt.

I remember an elderly grandfather in a village saying, “Baith jao, beti. Ye kursi hamara aapke liye samman hai;  insisting that I take the chair. To him, offering a chair was not just courtesy, it was a gesture of respect and welcome.

Once, I insisted a lady to sit on the chair too. I thought it would make things equal. But I noticed the conversation disappeared immediately. I could sense her going into her shell.

After that, I stopped arguing.

The chair itself was light. It scraped against the mud floor when moved. It was ordinary and inexpensive. Yet it carried the oppressive weight of a colonial past.

In those homes, it carried meaning. Guests sat on chairs. Officials sat on chairs. Leaders or village head sat on chair. Teachers sat on chairs.

The chair marked difference –not loudly, but clearly.

Sometimes, I would lean forward while sitting, trying to close the small distance it created. Or, after a while, I would move down and sit beside them. There was no perfect way to handle it.

There was only awareness.

“Sharing is caring : long before television tried to take the credit”.

Water would arrive in a steel glass, cool and clear. On some occasions fresh khira and

bihi. Tea was always offered. Lauki from the kitchen garden growing abundantly without fuss. Air potatoes / matalu, gently placed before us with a shy question: “Apke yaha milta hai ye?” Does this grow where you live?

If I refused, it felt like breaking something sacred. If I accepted without offering anything in return, my conscience would not sit quietly. Hospitality here was not performative. It was instinct. There was no calculation, no expectation of return. Only sharing.

Some homes were full of laughter: children peeping from behind doors, elders recounting stories of tigers, crops, weddings. Other homes felt paused. Migration had taken many young men away. Cities pulled silently. The fields remained patient.

In those quieter houses, the red and yellow chairs waited perhaps not for surveyors like me, but for family members who would return after harvest, after construction work, after saving enough to come home.

The people shared what they had. There was no display, no effort to impress. Only hospitality.

“The Imaginary Difference” Thank you or Dhanyawad

One day, I stopped at a small stall to ask for directions. I avoided English and spoke in simple Hindi, thinking it would be easier. She replied comfortably, slipping in a few English words, just enough to make me pause. Nothing unusual happened. The conversation moved on I said Dhanyawad she said Thank you. But as I walked away, I wondered whether, in trying not to create distance, I had quietly imagined one.

Years later, when I will think of my time in Kanha, I may not remember the survey forms.

I will remember the chair.

Placed carefully. Offered without hesitation.

And sometimes, the simplest objects reveal the most about how we see each other.