A picture tells a thousand stories and a table holds a million objects. A table, in my opinion is the longest surviving of any possession in a household. It’s hard. Tough. Made of wood. Can be repainted and repolished when kids in the house scratch its existence. Not easily replaceable. There was this similar wooden table in my home which holds a special place in my Dad’s heart. It came when we shifted into our newly constructed house somewhere in 2005. Back then, it was short and stout and laminated. Dad used to get it repolished every Diwali. Typical Indian household stories. So, another such Diwali was approaching, and Dad, being the adventurous soul he is, wanted something different. The reason might also include Mom’s constant pokes on getting rid of that ancient table, and Dad wanting to impress her. So he reinvented it: a new plywood on top; wheels at the bottom, new paints and polishes. Whew. Emerged the all new table-isia! Whatever. So, as this table has been the part and parcel of all our life events, I thought of using the same for showcasing the integration of this piece of wood (oh, no, I don’t mean this, Dad) into our lives. 

Pick-a-nick tripping

I remember all the picnics and trips me and my family used to go to ever since I was in nappies. The preparations used to start a day prior, and this table in our living room was the spot to run and back and run again to, collecting things we’d be needing: Camera? Check. Basket? Check. Water bottle? Check. Twice check it, or in the end you keep coming to me for water. Check check check. Oh, and the forks and spoons? You all are useless. Ugh. Believe me or not, my Mom is a Monica.

Art-ing all the way

Growing up in this art frenzy family means you never run short of art supplies. Sketch pens, paints, acrylics, pencil ones and crayon ones, brushes and glues and tapes and what not. Come hither summer vacations, and the Picasso in us awakens like Prospero has conjured back some spirits of the art. And this table was the painter ( or doodler as in my case who hardly knows how to handle a brush) desk for the rest two months, creating masterpieces ( and funny-faced cartoons) to be put up on the walls. Stock full until next vacations. 

Fest be ‘da best

Although my family is not as much Holi crazy, but being a good host is something always on the plates. My Mom would prepare delicacies and goodies ( the only reason I can let Holi pass as a festival) which would be transferred to the table in guest-special glass bowls. As soon as the festivities end, these have to be placed in the kitchen cabinets carefully, after we have consumed the leftover gujiyas and papads. 

Exam-O-phobia

Break-ups and stuff is okay, but the stress exams bring along is unbeatable. I used to shift all my study material and the beacons of my very life existence to this living room table, the couch to be my snail shell all this while. Snacks would be transported here, while my butt would stick to the sofa chair. Depressing times, you know. 

All cos and no play

We become all Shanayas and Poos when it comes to dressing up, me and my sister and my mom. Listen ye countrymen, there’s a party, and we jump to the dress up game. Sometimes we feel like Cinderella’s stepmother and stepsisters, like Anastasia, though. But who cares as long as we get to look pretty ( Unpopular opinion? ) Well, that’s where the table comes into play of all our ensemble and outfit debates for the evening: Should I go for blue? Nah, that’s what I am wearing, I don’t want to look like your stupid twin. Earrings? Um, drop the idea. Bring that dress. These shoes are oUtDaTed. Okay, diDi.

Dine the fine way

Guests are parasites, isn’t it? But we can’t ignore them, or pretend not to be at home by speaking from behind the door, “They’re not home.” Well. A dinner party, and the orchid cutlery for such special occasions when Queen Elizabeth would turn up, surfaces from nowhere. All pre-dinner rehearsal before the finale at the dining table would happen here on wood. Waitressing done right.