For us, it was a much-deserved excuse for an outing after COVID lock down was lifted. Heady and intoxicated by fresh Spring air and re-discovering freedom, we cooed and trilled and traipsed across the city. We were also prospective contributors to the Australian economy that had begun its fast slide downwards to Antarctica.
If I could, I would certainly name my house “Oasis”. It means “a fertile or green area in an arid region (such as a desert). It also means something that provides refuge, relief, or pleasant contrast, or a watering hole (which sounds even better if referring to the right spirits - pun intended). However, the Australian Government has set rules on its postal system and households can only be identified by numerals and postcodes. But “Oasis” my house shall be, for me. For my family and friends who gather to share stories over spicy curries and steaming rotis, whispering secrets or exchanging gossips alongwith “chai”(Indian tea) and “chaat” (savoury Indian street food) and later, smothering giggles or breaking into raucous laughter over tipples and sherries, while perched or sprawled over the bar cabinet, in a joint effort to uplift our spirits, literally and quite liberally.
Over years and many such gatherings, I have perfected the art of being a good hostess - firstly, as I am a reasonably good cook, but more importantly, as my spouse cooks even better. While he makes himself busy banging pots and pans in the kitchen, I quickly re-work the home interiors to create the “perfect party pad”. Impromptu cushions made from pillows, stacked pillars of books transformed to perfect snack tables and holiday souvenir plates and forks coming to my rescue to serve salads and desserts. In the wee hours as our guests part, they compliment me on my beautiful house and excellent housekeeping which has kept my amateurish passion for interior decoration alive and kicking. It is not an easy task. Thrift shop treasures and junkyard jackpots have been smuggled, lugged, or chauffeured into my household, leaving none wiser. So far, so good.
But it was when our couch started to peel its faux leather skin and stick on our backs that I decided it was time for our house to go through a quick makeover. So off we trooped to the malls and retailers where polished, shiny goods silently screamed through large french windows “Please take me with you. I shall get your home to be the next cover of Vogue magazine”. Mind you, if you accidentally happen to glance at their price tags you would only drop down dead instantaneously.
For us, it was a much-deserved excuse for an outing after COVID lockdown was lifted. Heady and intoxicated by fresh Spring air and re-discovering freedom, we cooed and trilled and traipsed across the city. We were also prospective contributors to the Australian economy that had begun its fast slide downwards to Antarctica.
In the furniture outlets, we played musical chairs amidst armchairs, went merrily around coffee tables, stretched our tired limbs on couches, and passed covert looks at our masked visages in the humongous mirrors lined against the walls. We also made intermittent stops at framed pictures and posters, exercising our half-baked connoisseur’s eye, praising or punishing the works of unknown artists until it was time for a much-needed visit to the toilet or for some nourishment for our tired bodies and souls.
Muffled discussions continued in the car, at parking areas, in narrow passageways, at the counters of the fast-food outlet, even “pausing” the order taker midway, to add a plausible point. As the first waves of hunger were satiated, I realized that in search for some “cushioned” comfort for our derrieres, we had opened the proverbial Pandora’s box.
Each one of us liked something different and passionately defended our choice. There was no question of surrender. “Attention!”, I shouted in my shrill voice, in order to bring some decorum across the table and to avoid being closely scrutinized by fellow diners who, I am certain, must have felt that either we were “fixer-uppers” preparing for an upcoming TV show or were being banished in a hurried exile to an alien planet.
“I like the extra-large, white furry four-seater lounge”, boomed my spouse (which I instantly nick-named as “the rabbit”). “Shucks! No!! the broad, indigo-blue futon with no scatter cushions or frills is the perfect fit”, shouted my oldest. “Yeow! Pink it shall be!” countered my 9-year old daughter, referring to a dainty satin sofa, that looked tailor-made for fairies or those weightless mythical creatures. “Black!” I boomed, without batting my eyelids, bulldozing any future opposition. It was a diktat. The menfolk froze while desperately trying to recollect which piece of furniture had taken my fancy. With my quirky tastes, they were mentally trembling, thinking of what monstrosity might be bought and installed.
“The black, velvety sofa in the modular shape makes the perfect family couch”, I reaffirmed. The object of my reference was of a debatable colour ranging from black to faded grey or a deep-shade green based on lighting or degree of your color-blindness. Its abstract, cocoon shape had to be an acquired taste. It was the least liked one by my family. The discussion that ensued (read shouts, threats, tears, and arguments) continued all the way back home and was sure to continue for many days to come.
Dinner time thereafter was centered on “the rabbit vs cocoon”. We had commenced warring for couches just as the TV drama “Game of Thrones”. As always, I quickly stepped into the ring and tossed in a solution. “I am also buying the accent chair from Ikea”, I declared. “It will go well with the black velvet couch”, I added with a smirk. But nobody smiled. They were recollecting a veritable grand wing-chair, upholstered in houndstooth fabric, a chance find, while downing Swedish meatballs and lingonberry sauce at Ikea. You could classify it either as a beauty or a beast, based on your taste.
In our tiny living room, already crammed with books, plants, and family heirlooms, the wing chair would sit like a “fortress”. One would have to tiptoe or stop and give way or end up treading on each other's toes. The children turned partisans and sided with their dad. (Un)fortunately, both items, the rabbit and the cocoon were currently unavailable due to the global pandemic and the floor pieces were not up for sale.
Fearing further loss, I mail-ordered my Ikea wing-chair. It now sits reigning in our living room amidst the brass lamps and Tanjore paintings and other global knick-knacks, looking like erstwhile East India Company has come calling on India, with a proposal for an afternoon tea. Some might call it a designer’s fiasco, but I loved it.
While for you, dear reader, this may seem like the proverbial storm in a teacup, for me it encapsulates my home, my oasis. While an oasis defines peace and tranquility we often forget that it sits in the middle of the desert. A desert is often unpredictable and totally unapologetic. Calm and cool days are seldom and scarce. It takes a desert storm to truly appreciate an oasis - a place of refuge for one to gather, rest, and nourish body and soul. And this is exactly what my house and my family is all about because we make up “the Oasis” in our desert storm of life.
These days as I sit in my armchair like an uncrowned queen, curled with my favourite book, my family circumambulate it to grab cushions and plaster the sofa in order to protect their backs and bottoms. A storm is brewing in the minds of those trumped and as soon as we receive the phone call from the furniture shop informing us of “stock arrival”, it is sure to usher the dreaded “war of couches” in Oasis encore.
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