When we sold our ancestral home in the village, most of the small household items were given away—some for free and some for throwaway prices. But three large wooden pieces remained: a bureau, a reclining chair, and a heavy table.
We brothers divided them among ourselves. My share was the bureau. The other two pieces were quickly sold by my brothers to a newly rich villager for a handsome sum. He also wanted my bureau, but I refused.
I brought the bureau to my (rented) house in Chennai. I say “brought it” casually, but bringing it was no easy task. The bureau was very heavy, and I had to employ several men to lift it onto a bullock cart, transport it 10 kilometers to the town, and unload it at the office of the goods transport firm
Even at the office of the transport firm, unloading the bureau required many hands. At first, the employees of the firm said it won't be possible to send the bureau by lorry. It took some pleading from me before I could make them accept the bureau for shipment.
When I heard the freight they demanded,
I was shocked—I even considered abandoning the bureau there and quietly
slipping away. But, with no other option, I paid the exorbitant charges demanded by them and
arranged to have it sent by lorry.
When the bureau finally reached Chennai, the trouble of moving it from the transport office to my house was no less. The transport company and the labourers virtually robbed me, extorting a heavy amount from me, yet behaved as though they were doing me a favor! I had to beg each one of them at every step of moving the bureau from the transport office to my home.
“Good heavens, sir! What sort of bureau is this? It is so heavy!” was the common remark I kept hearing.
Apprehensive that the bureau might get damaged if it slipped from the hands of the labourers due to their inadvertent handling, I kept begging them, “Please, lift it carefully and slowly!”
No sooner had the bureau reached my house than my landlord, sweating like a hawk swooping down, rushed in: “What’s this, sir? Where did you bring this from? The floor may crack—be careful!” he said expressing his anxiety.
I swallowed the retort that rose in my mind—Floors may crack under iron bureaus, not under wooden ones. Doesn’t your wooden head know this?—and replied politely, “Don’t worry, sir. I’ll take care.”
At last, the bureau stood inside my home.
When my wife heard what the transport had cost, she nearly fainted. “For that money, we could have bought four new Godrej bureaus!” she said.
Over the next fifteen years, as we shifted our residence three times,
Now, after we had bought our own house, I couldn’t take the bureau along. My family (everyone except me) unanimously decided that there was no place for the wooden bureau in our new home.
“You have already spent enough on this bureau. Sell it and be done with it,” said my wife.
So, with no other choice, I decided to sell it.
I browsed the newspaper classifieds and was surprised to see so many buyers for old goods. I thought I would be clever—show the bureau to five or six dealers and sell it to the one who offered the most.
But no one was ready to offer a decent amount for my bureau.
“This won’t sell, sir! No one will buy it even for using it as firewood. If you want, I’ll take it away on my cart and dump it somewhere. You won’t get any price,” said one.
Another offered a sum lower than what he would have offered for old newspapers.
After several such disappointments, a man named Janarthanan arrived.
He carefully opened the bureau, examined each part, and said, “Looks like a very old bureau indeed! How much are you expecting?”
“Will you give me five thousand rupees?” I asked, hesitantly.
He laughed. “Sir, I’m a trader. I expect a fair price for what I sell, and I believe others too should get fair value for their goods.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, puzzled.
“Sir, there are collectors who will pay good money for antiques like this. If I buy this bureau from you for five thousand rupees and sell it to them for a huge profit, I would only be cheating you. Instead, let me give you the contact numbers of a few antique dealers I know. Call them. They will come, inspect the bureau, and quote their price. Check with a few, and sell it to whoever offers you the best deal.”
“And what do you think it might fetch?” I asked, astonished.
“I can’t say exactly,” he replied. “But it will surely go for more than one lakh rupees.”
The Path of Virtue
Neutrality
piRavum thama pOl seyin.
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