The Chair

The Chair

Priyabrat Biswal

Yesterday, I sold my revolving chair.

It was almost new. The dealer who came to inspect it seemed surprised. He checked the wheels, pressed the cushions and adjusted the backrest before asking, "Sir, it's hardly been used. Why are you selling it?"

I smiled but said nothing.

How could I explain that I was not merely selling a piece of furniture? I was parting with a symbol.

For years, that chair occupied a corner of my study-cum-bedroom. It was where I spent long hours reading, writing, reflecting and preparing for the next day's assignments. Long after returning from the newsroom, I would sit there editing drafts, chasing story ideas, responding to messages and engaging with people from different walks of life. It became inseparably linked to my identity as Deputy Resident Editor of an English daily.

Journalism opened doors to an extraordinary world. It introduced me to corporate leaders, public relations professionals, bureaucrats, entrepreneurs, writers and artists. Every day brought new conversations, new stories and new possibilities.

My phone rarely remained silent. There were invitations, requests, discussions and endless exchanges of information. Some people sought publicity, others sought advice, and many simply wanted to stay connected. Gradually, I came to believe that these relationships were built on mutual respect and personal regard.

Then life took an unexpected turn.

One day, I walked away from the organisation I was working for because there are moments when self-respect becomes more important than position. But I did not leave journalism. I moved to digital media, where storytelling continues in a different form. My passion for reporting and writing remained unchanged.

Yet almost overnight, something shifted.

The phone began to ring less often. Conversations grew shorter. Some people who had once been regular callers quietly drifted away. Messages remained unanswered. Invitations became fewer.

At first, it hurt.

Not because I expected favours, but because I was trying to understand what had changed. My experience was the same. My commitment to journalism was the same. Yet something was undeniably different.

With time, the answer became clearer.

Most professional relationships are built on shared interests and mutual needs. Journalists need information. Businesses need visibility. Public relations professionals need platforms. Every profession functions within a network of exchange.

There is nothing wrong with that.

The mistake lies in assuming that every professional relationship is also a personal one.

When the circumstances that bring people together change, many connections naturally weaken. Not because people are necessarily selfish or ungrateful, but because the purpose that sustained the relationship no longer exists.

Yet that was not the whole story.

Not everyone disappeared.

A handful of people continued to call. They shared ideas, discussed books, debated issues and enquired about my well-being without expecting anything in return. Their friendship survived the loss of designation because it had never depended upon it.

Those relationships became invaluable.

They reminded me that while many people had been connected to the chair, a few had been connected to the person sitting on it.

One evening, while sitting alone in my study, I looked at the revolving chair standing quietly in the corner.

Suddenly, I understood why the changes around me had felt so profound.

The chair was never merely a chair.

It was authority.

It was visibility.

It was influence.

It was relevance.

It amplified my voice. It made people return calls quickly. It opened doors and sustained attention. The day I stepped away from the position, the amplification faded.

That realisation brought another insight.

A chair often creates a subtle illusion. It makes us believe that the respect we receive belongs entirely to us, when much of it actually belongs to the position we occupy. Authority can quietly inflate our sense of importance while hiding the fact that every designation is temporary.

The realisation did not make me bitter. It made me wiser.

It taught me to distinguish friendship from convenience, genuine regard from professional necessity, and respect for a person from respect for a position.

Yesterday, as the dealer loaded the chair onto his vehicle, I stood at the gate watching it disappear down the road.

For a moment, I felt a strange sadness.

Not for the chair.

Not for the influence it symbolized.

But for an illusion that had taken years to fade.

In our society, people often salute the chair more than the individual. They admire authority, acknowledge power and respect designation. The occupant is temporary; the chair endures. Today one person occupies it, tomorrow another.

That is perhaps one of life's quietest ironies.

A chair does not dream, struggle, sacrifice or feel. Human beings do. Yet society often remembers the position long after it forgets the person who once occupied it.

As my revolving chair disappeared from sight, it left behind its final lesson.

The chair receives the respect.

The chair receives the attention.

The chair receives the importance.

The individual merely borrows them for a while.

And when the chair is gone, what remains is the only thing that truly matters — the integrity of one's work, the dignity of one's character, and the few people who continue to value the human being long after power, position and privilege have passed on to someone else.