The cursed table

One evening over a cup of tea, Subhash leaned back in his chair, a wry smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He glanced at me and said, “You’ll never believe what happened with that antique center table I sold.”

I raised my eyebrows, curious. “The one that was gifted to you by your friend?”

He nodded. “Yeah, the very same one. You know, it was a beautiful piece—mahogany wood, British era craftsmanship. My wife, though, she was tired of it. Said it took up too much space in the living room and clashed with the decor. None of our relatives or friends wanted it, so I finally decided to sell it.”

He paused for a moment, as if recalling the scene vividly. “I put up an ad, and wouldn’t you know it, an old gentleman showed up at my door within a day. His name was Santosh Banerjee. As soon as he saw the table, his face lit up. Said he was a collector of antiques, and he knew right away it was British-era, even before I told him. When I mentioned it was mahogany, he didn’t think twice. Handed over ₹5,000 on the spot and took the table away.”

Subhash chuckled, shaking his head. “I thought that was the end of it. But a few months later, I get this knock on the door. It’s a delivery boy, and guess what he’s brought back? The center table. Along with a note from Banerjee.”

“Wait, what?” I leaned in, intrigued. “He returned it?”

“Yeah, man,” Subhash said, clearly amused but also a bit unsettled. “The note said the table was cursed. Can you believe it? Banerjee wrote that one of his friends, who had come over shortly after he bought the table, died suddenly. He was convinced the table was responsible for the bad luck. He didn’t want it anymore and returned it to me with his apologies.”

“That’s insane,” I said. “What did you do then?”

“Well,” Subhash continued, “my wife was spooked after reading that note. She didn’t want the table anywhere near our house. So, we took it down to the basement garage and stashed it next to a pillar. I thought that would be the end of it, you know? Out of sight, out of mind.”

He paused, his expression turning more serious. “But then, things got weird. A few weeks later, I noticed a crack forming in the pillar where we kept the table. It wasn’t there before, and though no one in the building seemed to connect it to the table, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off.”

Subhash’s eyes met mine. “It sounds ridiculous, I know. I don’t believe in curses or anything like that, but the timing of the crack was unsettling. And you know, we live in an earthquake-prone area. The last thing I wanted was for that pillar to give way.”

I could see where this was going. “So, what did you do?”

“Well,” Subhash said, “I called in a structural engineer. Better safe than sorry, right? The guy came in and inspected the pillar. He confirmed that the crack was serious enough to warrant repairs, but he also reassured me that it wasn’t catastrophic yet. He suggested reinforcing it, which I had done right away.”

I nodded, feeling relieved for him. “So the crack was taken care of?”

“Yeah, the crack was fixed,” Subhash said. “But the table? That was still a problem. I mean, I couldn’t just keep it in the basement forever. My wife wouldn’t let it back in the house, and after that note from Banerjee, I wasn’t too keen on it either.”

“So what did you do with it?” I asked, eager to hear the conclusion.

“That’s the interesting part,” Subhash said, his smile returning. “I reached out to a friend of mine who’s into history and antiques. He took a look at the table and told me something fascinating. Apparently, this table had a history—it had belonged to a British officer back in the colonial days. It had passed through a lot of hands, and there were all sorts of rumors about family feuds and tragedies connected to it.”

“Like a cursed object,” I mused.

“Exactly,” Subhash said. “But I wasn’t about to let that spook me. Instead, my friend suggested donating it to a museum that specializes in colonial history. That way, the table’s legacy could live on, but it wouldn’t be my problem anymore. So, I contacted the museum, and they were more than happy to take it. It’s on display now, with all its history laid out for people to see.”

“And no more trouble with the pillar?” I asked, grinning.

Subhash laughed. “Nope, the pillar is standing strong, and the table’s out of my life for good. As far as I’m concerned, the so-called curse is over.”

He took a sip of his tea and leaned back with a satisfied expression. “So yeah, that’s how I got rid of the cursed table. That's what I thought,but !”

Subhash chuckled as he finished his tea, but then his expression turned a little serious. "You know, there's one more strange thing. My wife and I sometimes see the table sitting in its original place in the living room, late at night. It's as if it's watching us… or worse, laughing at us."

I raised an eyebrow. "Laughing?"

"Yeah, it's hard to explain," Subhash continued, a hint of unease creeping into his voice. "We both feel it. But by morning, everything is back to normal, and the table is nowhere to be seen."

"What did you do?" I asked, now thoroughly intrigued.

"Well, I couldn't help myself," he said with a shrug. "I called the museum, just to make sure the table was still there. They assured me it hasn't moved an inch. In fact, it's now their main attraction."

We both sat in silence for a moment, and then Subhash smiled wryly. "Maybe it's just our imagination. Or maybe that table really does have a life of its own."

I laughed, but there was a chill in the room that neither of us could quite shake.

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