The Chair

Keshav walked through the dimly lit lanes of the Hyderabad flea market, the scent of old wood and rusting metal thick in the air. He wasn’t particularly looking for anything, just killing time after another frustrating day at work. His company, a reputed IT firm, had recently been under scrutiny. A week ago, Keshav had stumbled upon a confidential email thread hinting at major financial discrepancies—funds were being siphoned, and the senior leadership seemed complicit. Since then, he had been grappling with an inner turmoil. Should he expose the fraud and risk his career, or should he stay silent like the others?

His wandering gaze landed on an old, intricate chair propped against a vendor’s stall. Its frame was made of dark mahogany, the armrests carved with swirling patterns that seemed to move under the flickering bulb overhead. A strange pull made him walk towards it.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” the vendor, an elderly man with sharp, knowing eyes, said.

Keshav ran his fingers over the cool wood. “How much?”

The man smiled, his eyes glinting. “Not much. But know this—this chair is... different.”

Keshav smirked, assuming it was just a sales tactic. He paid and carried the chair home, placing it near his work desk. That night, exhaustion claimed him early, but sleep was restless.

The next evening, feeling drained from another day of deception and silence, he collapsed into the antique chair. The moment his back touched the wood, a strange sensation washed over him. His mind sharpened, thoughts pouring in like a flood—clear, raw, uninhibited. It was as if he had unlocked a hidden part of himself. He smirked, suddenly amused at how naïve he had been, afraid to confront the corruption around him. Why should he be scared? He was smarter than them.

Ideas crackled in his mind. He could expose the fraud, but in a way that protected him. He sat there for hours, mapping out an intricate plan, his alter ego whispering strategies laced with wit and audacity.

The next day at work, he put the plan in motion. He began gathering evidence—not directly, but by subtly leading conversations, accessing key files without raising suspicion, and ensuring everything pointed back to the perpetrators. His colleagues noticed his newfound confidence. He was no longer the hesitant, conflict-averse employee; he was sharper, quicker, unpredictable.

Every night, he returned to the chair, and every night, he became someone else—someone fearless, cunning, almost ruthless. The chair was more than furniture now; it was a conduit to a version of himself he had never met before.

Days turned into weeks. With careful precision, Keshav planted seeds of doubt in the minds of the auditors and investors. He leaked crucial documents through anonymous channels. The walls around the guilty executives began to close in.

One morning, the CEO and CFO were abruptly escorted out of the building. The official announcement cited “internal discrepancies under investigation.” Whispers spread like wildfire. Keshav sat at his desk, a slow smile playing on his lips. He had done it.

That evening, he returned home, standing before the chair that had changed everything. He hesitated before sitting down. Did he need it anymore? Or had the chair only revealed what was already within him?

Taking a deep breath, he stepped away, switching off the light. The chair remained where it was, silent yet watchful, waiting for the next soul in need of its power.