The Chair by the Mango Tree

I never thought a simple wooden chair could hold so much meaning.
It sat under the mango tree in our ancestral courtyard for over two decades, weathered by time, dust, and laughter. But to us, it was Dada’s throne — my grandfather’s favorite place in the whole world.

Dada wasn’t a man of many words. He was gentle, observant, and carried a kind of calm that made you want to sit near him even when he wasn’t saying a thing. Every evening, after prayers and tea, he would quietly carry his chair beneath the tree, take a seat, and watch the world go by.

To a stranger, it would look like nothing. But to us — it was the center of our home.


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I remember summers in that house. My cousins and I would run barefoot across the dusty yard, our shirts sticking to our backs, mango juice dripping from our chins. Dadi would yell from the kitchen, warning us not to climb the tree again, and we’d pretend we didn’t hear.

And Dada would just sit there — in that chair — sometimes smiling, sometimes pretending to be stern. That chair saw every scraped knee, every fight over the last mango, every childhood secret whispered just within earshot.

He never interrupted. He never scolded.
But we all behaved better when he was there.
It’s strange how one person’s quiet presence can be more powerful than a dozen lectures.


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In winter, Dada wrapped a shawl around himself and sat in the same chair with the sun on his face. He'd sip tea slowly, always from a chipped white cup with a blue rim. And when I grew older, he let me make his tea — just the way he liked it: strong, no sugar, a pinch of cardamom.

That was our thing.

I’d sit on the edge of the step while he sat in his chair, and we’d talk about everything — and sometimes nothing. He once told me:

> “When you get older, you'll learn that silence is a kind of wisdom. People chase noise to feel full. But peace... peace is found in the quiet.”



I didn’t understand it then. But I do now.


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The year he fell ill, the chair remained empty.

He was in bed most of the time, and though he never complained, we could see it pained him not to be outside. One day, he asked me, “Is the tree still green?”

I nodded, hiding my tears. “Very green.”

He smiled. “Then it’s still home.”


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Dada passed away peacefully a few months later.

We buried him near the garden he loved. The mango tree bloomed that year like never before. And the chair? It stayed where it was — untouched, almost sacred.

No one had the heart to move it.


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Years passed. We grew up, moved away, and life became busier. But every time I visited that house, I’d go straight to the chair. I’d sit for a while, let the wind carry the smell of ripe mangoes, and listen for echoes of our childhood.

One afternoon, my own son — barely five — climbed into my lap while I sat in Dada’s chair. He looked up at the tree and said, “Was this your favorite place when you were little?”

“No,” I whispered, “it was his.”
And then I told him stories of my grandfather.
About the man who never yelled. The one who taught me silence. The one who sat under this very tree and watched the world with kindness in his eyes.


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Grief softens with time, but some places remain sacred forever.

That chair, under that tree, became more than furniture. It became a legacy. A reminder that the most valuable parts of family aren’t loud or grand — they are built in moments so small, we don’t realize how deeply they matter until they’re gone.