“It’s About the Process” by Japneet K

 

There’s a clattering of metal and plastic hitting the floor as I open the box. Well. This is going to be fun.

My dad’s new office chair has arrived and the box has been sitting at the door all day, my dad meandering past it on his way upstairs and my mom dutifully ignoring the mess it makes of her pristine living room. I’ve seen it slumped in the doorway from the corner of my eye, diagonal from where I’ve been doing my work. I offer it a full glare, disdain apparent, and then change my mind and flash a smile, hoping that it will manifest the chair into its full glory, not just metal and plastic parts, and not cause any issues. Alas, it doesn’t smile back.

The date on my computer changes, the clock hitting 12, signaling time for me to finally close my computer, get up, and eat. I want cup noodles, as is pretty standard for me, but my sister stares me down from the kitchen, and then gives me a fake smile and nonchalantly mentions the 3 other times I ate cup noodles this week, her smirk mocking my hopes and desires. Defeated, I shrink back to my chair and stare at the box. It looks overburdened and tired, exhausted from carrying the heavy parts all day. I don’t like the sight of it, nor the accompanying pang of sympathy that comes with it. My back aches as I stand up, my hunched shoulders finally dropping and relaxing as I walk over. I stare at the box. It stares back.

There’s a box for the chair inside the box, because of course there is. My sister is frying something in the kitchen, the sound of sizzling hot oil drifting through the house as I sit on the floor, the tiles cooling on a too hot night. There are so many parts laid out, but just one me. The larger box housing the chair’s box stares at me, limp and tired. If this was a short story, this would mean something. Oh well.

I go part by part, slowly working through the chair. I’ve built the legs and have moved on to the rod that’ll hold the seat up when my dad comes downstairs. He glances at the chair and me on the floor, and then grabs his blanket from the couch and leaves. I go back to the rod, not lingering on the interaction as I focus on the task at hand. My music is playing in the background, and a Hindi song shuffles on as the rod slides into place.

I’m working on the back support and headrest when it hits. I didn’t notice at first but the slow warmth that started in my gut has unfurled throughout my body. It’s reached my fingertips now, the satisfaction nearly oozing out of them. I stare at the completed parts of the chair, the wheels and the rod attached, the seat waiting to connect to the backrest, and the handles painstakingly screwed and tightened into the chair. It’s not complete yet, but it’s ok.The parts that I built, that I put the time and effort into sit there, waiting to become part of a whole and it’s fine. Taking a break, I sit down and stare at the chair as I ponder, while my parent’s TV plays in the background.

To my parents, results are vital. They moved here from India when I was a few months old, spending years working their hardest, collecting coupons to save any money, and trying their best to help me and my siblings live a good life. They spent years in a perpetual feeling of “stuck” where they could never move up, staying stagnant until all of their little steps finally mattered and amounted to a large change. The little steps and progress went ignored as they sought to make big changes faster and easier, ached for the results to escape their fatigue and hopelessness. As me and my siblings grew up, the path to results was the only one we knew, the only one we ever cared about. Unfinished products, things in process didn’t matter until they were ready and completed, able to be used and improved, a physical reminder of accomplishment.

I stare at my unfinished chair as I internally monologue, the realization creeping on me as the TV blares in the background.

I find starting things to be the most difficult part of the process, because it feels so slow until I get to the results. I don’t have anything to show for it until I reach that final product, but here this chair sits, in all of its unfinished glory and something finally clicks.

I put together each small part, going screw by screw and feeling the sweat gather on my forehead as I pushed the pieces in. Each part brought warmth to me, a sense of accomplishment as I finished each task. I love this chair, for all the work that went into it, for all the effort that it took, for all the progress that I saw. Finished or not, each part of the process brought me peace and understanding, going with me together, as I made progress slowly, not worrying about the final chair and focusing one by one on each component.

After this not-so-earth shattering revelation, I screw together the final piece and call my sister over to help me adjust the seat and backrest. It’s done and this time there is no dread, no anxiety or nitpicking. I went through the process, I took the time, and I did it well. I’m proud of each step I took to finish it.

“Good job” my sister says, breaking me out of thought, and spinning around on the chair.

“It was fun,” I say, slowly smiling as my eye catches the outer box. 

“Finishing it?” she asks. 

“Nah.”

The box seems to smile back.

“Building it.”