MOD, our resident bachelor no. 4 (yes, Mr. Moong-daal himself) has been sleeping on the living room couch for the past week. When asked why he was doing so by Batman (about 4 days ago), he shrugged his shoulders and nonchalantly said something about needing a change.
Admittedly, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with sleeping on that couch or any other, for that matter. I can personally attest to the fact that it is an excellent piece of furniture and carries out its duties without protest. Still, as readers may have noticed from previous posts, no action in the place I live in comes without its very own sinister meaning.
Since I am the first to leave for work every morning, I am therefore invariably greeted by the sight of sprawled limbs and a blanket rising up and falling to the tune of tympanic snoring. Not the prettiest sight one can be greeted by at the crack of dawn or thereabouts, but, as I have discovered, wishes stubbornly refuse to turn into horses. At least this not-so-panoramic vision serves to ensure that I am wide awake or startled by the time I leave the house. But, I digress.
I was admittedly curious, but chose not to ask either him or the other two specimens about it. A man has the right to sleep wherever he wants, especially after he's paid up his share of the rent. Yesterday evening however, my curiousity was satiated... with vengeance. Batman, Grandpa and I are sitting at dinner and the topic of bedbugs came up. Something to do with irony and the song 'Kuch kuch hota hai'. Anyway, as I sniggered and said something about bedbug numbers in the U.S, Grandpa smiled. It was not a nice smile. In fact, it was a downright diabolical smile and it generally does not bode anything remotely well for anyone.
He says "Bedbugs are nothing new yaar. There's a mouse in my room."
The silence that follows this declaration is ghastly. I look at Batman, who proceeds to smile serenely, which tells me that this is old news to him. I look back at Grandpa, who's still doing his 'Prem Chopra leering at hapless village belle' impression. I ask him how long its been there. "A week" comes the casual reply.
MOD is Grandpa's room-mate. The mystery of the sofa sleeper has been solved. On a side note, out here we sleep on the floor, in sleeping bags. Oy vey!
Rimbaud once said "What am I doing here ?" I concur.
Song for the moment: Rat race - Bob Marley
Admittedly, there is nothing intrinsically wrong with sleeping on that couch or any other, for that matter. I can personally attest to the fact that it is an excellent piece of furniture and carries out its duties without protest. Still, as readers may have noticed from previous posts, no action in the place I live in comes without its very own sinister meaning.
Since I am the first to leave for work every morning, I am therefore invariably greeted by the sight of sprawled limbs and a blanket rising up and falling to the tune of tympanic snoring. Not the prettiest sight one can be greeted by at the crack of dawn or thereabouts, but, as I have discovered, wishes stubbornly refuse to turn into horses. At least this not-so-panoramic vision serves to ensure that I am wide awake or startled by the time I leave the house. But, I digress.
I was admittedly curious, but chose not to ask either him or the other two specimens about it. A man has the right to sleep wherever he wants, especially after he's paid up his share of the rent. Yesterday evening however, my curiousity was satiated... with vengeance. Batman, Grandpa and I are sitting at dinner and the topic of bedbugs came up. Something to do with irony and the song 'Kuch kuch hota hai'. Anyway, as I sniggered and said something about bedbug numbers in the U.S, Grandpa smiled. It was not a nice smile. In fact, it was a downright diabolical smile and it generally does not bode anything remotely well for anyone.
He says "Bedbugs are nothing new yaar. There's a mouse in my room."
The silence that follows this declaration is ghastly. I look at Batman, who proceeds to smile serenely, which tells me that this is old news to him. I look back at Grandpa, who's still doing his 'Prem Chopra leering at hapless village belle' impression. I ask him how long its been there. "A week" comes the casual reply.
MOD is Grandpa's room-mate. The mystery of the sofa sleeper has been solved. On a side note, out here we sleep on the floor, in sleeping bags. Oy vey!
Rimbaud once said "What am I doing here ?" I concur.
Song for the moment: Rat race - Bob Marley
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