Sofa, sofa.

The sofa is a violet sponge today, sucking my tired body into it as I drink cold tea from a black mug. On cold evenings, this is warmest corner of the house. I like watching regular TV here on the sofa, after craning my neck on the net book over a movie I watch in all possible positions, the net book imitating each of these positions. Now and then, I have to drag my body half way across the hall when the doorbell rings. When I get back to the mushed up waves on my spot, it is just as comfortable. It doesn’t change how it makes my body feel, no matter how long it takes me to return and no matter what mood I return with.

On Sunday afternoons, this is where I am. Curled up next to a book that is a mute spectator to all the TV I am watching. I have a picture in my mind that I hope I see myself in, some day. I am curled up on the sofa, only this time I am actually reading.

It makes for a very bad bed though. I woke up one morning with my back disconnected from my body. For all the homeliness it offered to a sitter, it didn’t look too kindly on my sleeping self.

It smells like velvet and dust. Sometimes I wedge my palm into the sides of the sofa to see if I can find groundnuts or pieces of chapattis. Sometimes I find a bra.

The afternoon sun shimmers through the window and onto the white floor making shadowy ladders. A truck passes by and shadow shifts now. Very rarely do I run into the occasion of catching a movie when it has just begun. When I do, my day is set.

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