In a proper middle-class life, a sofa set is both destiny and destination and matching is a requirement. I did not want to fall into its clutches. Then, I fell in love.
Illustration/Uday Mohite
There are two kinds of people. Those who fix things right away. Others who take their time. You call it procrastination. I call it commitment.
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When I began living on my own, like all my friends, my furniture was a mattress on the floor, parents ke extra bartans and cardboard boxes covered with dupattas. The years advanced. So did my friends. They acquired sofa sets, cars, big fridges and washing machines. I advanced in a different direction, taking hand-me-down furniture and my mix-and-match décor to new heights. Starting out unpredictable, it came together eventually, kind of like my life. I was pretty happy. Others, not always.
“I think you should get an air-conditioner in the living room” one friend said every time he came. “Really?” I’d respond, yaniki, never. A new friend surveyed the mani-coloured surroundings and said, “Your house looks like someone started out with great enthusiasm, then got very busy traveling.” No disagreement there on the pretty-practical balance. When I finally bought a TV, my assistant said, “Bas, now you must buy a sofa.” Really?
In a proper middle-class life, a sofa set is both destiny and destination and matching is a requirement. I did not want to fall into its clutches. Then, I fell in love.
One day, chalte chalte in the mall I saw a sofa, lime green. Shaped like Austin Powers’ love-couch, it might have been imported from the moon. The salesperson said it was not compusory to buy the whole set. I imagined myself lying on it like Elizabeth Barrett Browning, reading as golden orioles sang at the window. Reader, I married it. Some people were pleased I had found a perfect match for my unmatching house. Others said, “hmm interesting. But suits you.”
As with good looking boys, so with sofas. After some time the sofa began to come undone. At first it had a faded beauty. Then it became wild—torn, peeling, unhinged, like any neglected love. Finally it reached a place that activated some deeply buried middle class shame even in me and when every friend, relative and my cook beseeched me, I decided to repair it in the interest of other people’s respectability.
The upholsterer arrived and was dismayed. How had I let it go so far? He saw a golden opportunity for reform. Opening up his swatches, he urged me to #GoForGrey. How about this bright blue for that torn chair, I asked. “Your choice madam”. “How about the pink for the other torn chair?” He took a deep breath. “Madam, see this beige” he said with a tone of “let’s not go crazy here”. “Don’t you have like a deep purple?” I said, looking unhappy. This was the last straw. “Madam! Allah ke vaste ghar ka cocktail mat banao” he exclaimed. We looked at each other silently. “Ok, let’s tone it down. We will do yellow and green” I said. I heard him utter a prayer and mutter an expletive.
A week later, he returned with the repaired furniture. I was excited to arrange it.
For the first time in thirty years, everything in my house looked new—though it wasn’t, really. It looks great, I said. He looked skeptical, but indulgent. “Haan madam. It suits your style.” We smiled at each other. Bourgeois and bohemian met in the middle yaniki middle-age. Sofa so good #sorrynotsorry.
Paromita Vohra is an award-winning Mumbai-based filmmaker, writer and curator working with fiction and non-fiction. Reach her at paromita.vohra@mid-day.com
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