Special Edition: Snigdha Agrawal

Snigdha Agrawal

Dadaji’s Charpai

It had always been there, under the neem tree in the courtyard, its sagging belly of woven coir rope, stretched thin over time and stories. It wasn’t just furniture but a fixture of life, a net that held generations of births, deaths, and life dramas.  Once a golden twist of copra fibre, the coir ropes had darkened with years, absorbing oil, sun, laughter, and loss, like skin absorbs time. It groaned when sat upon, creaked when Dadaji shifted his weight or when a child bounced on it mid-game, but never once did it break. That old thing had the stubbornness of a mule and memories archived within its tapestry.

Amrik was only a few months old when he first lay on that charpai, soaked with mustard oil, slippery as an eel, glistening in the winter sun. Dadaji had rubbed the oil in slow, concentric circles, flipping him over like a paratha, so that no part of him missed the warmth of the January sun. The charpai meekly took it all: the leaked urine, the sudden projectile vomit after too much milk, even the baby poop that managed to sneak past the cloth nappy. No one cleaned it thoroughly. It wasn’t necessary. It was a living record of babyhood.

Evenings had their predictable pattern. As the village sky turned a soft, smoky orange and the smell of cow dung fires wafted from the neighbouring homes, Dadaji would set up the chessboard on the charpai. They’d drink lassi from the same tall steel glass, Bebe refilled occasionally.  Homework, too, was done under Dadaji’s watch, on the same sunken bed.   

And then came the morning when the charpai became something else.

There was something amiss.  Why hadn’t Dadaji shaken him awake, as was usual?  The sound of his flip flops slapping on the cemented rooftop, followed by the practised loud mouth gargling, was missing. There was an eerie silence. Like the rhythm of the household had paused. Had Dadaji overslept?  Unlikely. Peering closer, Amrik noticed his chest didn’t rise and fall.  The hissing sound of his breath was absent.  His face had a kind of stillness that even sleep couldn’t imitate. Realising the truth felt like being punched in the face.  He yelled loudly, which had the household rushing up. Seeing his still form, Bebe let out a scream that cracked through the skies, like thunder. They lit the diya, placed tulsi under his tongue, and prepared to take him away, cradled in the charpai.

They tried to burn the charpai along with him, as was customary, in the village, as a way to show respect for the deceased and ensure his soul got released.  But Amrik raised a storm. He clung to one of the legs, his face buried in its splintered wood, sobbing and screaming.  His mother tried to coax him, his uncles tried to reason, but he held on with the fierce confusion of a child unable to handle grief. And so, the charpai survived, though barely.

Years unspooled like the ropes of that bed. Amrik grew up, married a city girl from Andheri, and got a job in Mumbai. They bought an apartment in Worli, a sea-facing flat with glass balconies and Italian tiles. One of those places that smells of fresh paint and detachment. When the packers arrived to move things, he brought only a few essentials: old photographs, the old chessboard, and that charpai.

Everyone objected. His wife rolled her eyes. His mother said it was “bad luck” to bring something like that into a new home. But Amrik didn’t budge. “It’s not furniture,” he said quietly. “It’s mine.” And so, the old relic travelled from a dusty Punjab courtyard to the thirteenth floor of a tower flirting with the clouds moving in from the Arabian Sea.

Now it sits on his balcony, awkward and out of place amid potted palms and slick cane chairs. The sea wind pushes through its worn-out ropes, and when it rains, the frame soaks in water like an old man soaking in a tub. The wood is cracked in places; one leg is shorter, propped up by a piece of broken wood from the neem tree. The ropes sag like tired skin. But Amrik doesn’t try to fix it anymore. He tried once, with new coir from Dadar market, but the knots felt unfamiliar. False. The moment he sat on it, he knew it was no longer Dadaji’s charpai.  It was just a poor imitation. So, he undid the new ropes.  The old frayed ropes had to be knitted back with extreme caution. A task he undertook himself.

Every Sunday morning, when the rest of the house sleeps in, his wife still under the blanket, the kids tangled in dreams, Amrik steps out with his chai and lies down on the charpai. The sea murmurs below, birds trace lazy arcs overhead, and the city hum fades into a distant murmur. Here, on this broken frame of memory, he feels whole. He closes his eyes and is back in the village. The neem tree above, the sun on his skin, Dadaji flipping him over with a smile. He can almost taste the thick lassi, almost hear Dadaji shout ‘checkmate’ slapping his thighs in glee.

Sometimes, the ropes creak in a way that sounds like laughter. Sometimes, the scent of copra and old sweat lingers just long enough to bring tears. His children find it strange to hold onto something as useless as a clock with hands. Amrik just smiles in response. “Some things are not meant to be destroyed,” he says, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re meant to be remembered.”

And so, the charpai remains; significantly damaged, sagging and threadbare, but undefeated. Like memory. Like love. It may no longer hold weight like it once did, but it holds something deeper. A boy’s first alphabet with chalk on a slate. Grandfather’s warm cuddles. A lifetime of memories woven between its ropes.

Old. Tired. Indestructible.

Charpai – a wooden cot woven with coir ropes 

Tulsi – holy basil

Dadaji – paternal grandfather

Bebe – reference to mother

Diya – clay oil lamp

 

Bio: Snigdha Agrawal, a septuagenarian, was raised in a cosmopolitan environment, with exposure to Eastern and Western Cultures, imbibing the best of both worlds.  Educated in Loreto Institutions, under the tutelage of Irish Nuns, she developed a love for writing from childhood.  A versatile writer, she writes all genres of poetry, prose, short stories and travelogues.  

A published author of five books, the latest, FRAGMENTS OF TIME, is a book of memoirs, written in a simplistic style.  The book is available on Amazon worldwide in all formats.  She lives in Bangalore (India) and is happiest writing and travelling, her lifelong passions.

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Setu, June 2025