Pritam Mehta
Chapter 1
The morning began with the sharp clanking of steel utensils and the hiss of a pressure cooker — routine sounds in the Pradhan household — but this time, there was something different in the air. Madhuri Pradhan stood in the middle of the living room, hands on her hips, eyes fixed on the old brown sofa like a general inspecting a battlefield. Its once-beige upholstery was now a tapestry of curry stains, dog hair, and timeworn sagging. One of its wooden legs had been replaced with a stack of old Amar Chitra Katha comics and the right armrest had long surrendered to the weight of elbows and afternoon naps. “Today is the day,” she muttered with finality, more to herself than to anyone else. She turned to find Aaji noiselessly munching on her saunf in the corner and Arjun building a Lego satellite on the very cushion that had hosted five generations of tea cups, elbows, and slippered feet. “That thing is older than you, Arjun,” she snapped, yanking the Lego baseplate off the cushion. “And it’s leaving this house today.” But Arjun only blinked, half confused, half panicked, clutching his creation like a soldier guarding national treasure. From the kitchen came the soft gurgle of the coffee filter — Rajesh was still pretending to read the newspaper, the same one he’d been holding upside-down for the last five minutes ever since Madhuri made her announcement. Only Simba, the family’s adopted desi dog, lay sprawled across the edge of the sofa like an exhausted Mughal prince, letting out a groan of betrayal as Madhuri pulled the cover sheet for washing. Ananya peeked out of her room, camera phone already recording — not out of sentimentality, but to capture “raw family drama” for her YouTube vlog. But as Madhuri fumbled with the society housekeeping list to call the kabadiwala, something unexpected happened: her hand paused. Tucked beneath the sofa cover, almost invisible, was a faded doodle of two stick figures holding hands — one wearing a triangular skirt, the other in shorts, a crude sun beaming overhead. In the corner was the date: “8th March 2013.” It was Ananya and Arjun’s childhood drawing — one she’d completely forgotten. Her fingers trembled slightly. She folded the cover, composed herself, and dialed anyway. “Yes bhaiya, aaj hi lena hai. Old sofa hai. Bahut purana.” But somewhere deep inside, the first crack had formed.
That evening, the sofa sat like a silent king in the middle of the room, unaware of its impending doom, yet radiating a kind of stubborn royalty. As the sun dipped into the Pune skyline, golden light fell across the faded fabric, making the stain from last Holi’s gujiya accident gleam like a war medal. One by one, the family members began orbiting around it, like satellites pulled by gravity stronger than they admitted. Rajesh, who had earlier pretended to agree with Madhuri’s decision (“haan haan, ab toh naya hi le lo…”) suddenly found himself slouching onto the very corner he’d claimed for Sunday cricket. He ran his fingers along the remote-holding groove in the cushion — the perfect depression molded by years of inertia and snacks. Ananya sat cross-legged on the floor and began editing a short video titled “Sofa Ki Antim Yatra – Emotional Goodbye”, but ended up watching an old birthday clip where six-year-old Arjun was blowing candles, his tiny fingers poking into the cake while sitting on the very couch. Even Arjun, now pretending to be indifferent, had secretly hidden his Bluetooth speaker under the left cushion — the same one he once booby-trapped with rubber bands to scare Simba. Aaji was quiet throughout, but when Madhuri returned from her yoga class, she found the old lady asleep on the sofa, head tilted back, mouth slightly open, rosary in hand — like a living statue guarding a relic. Madhuri sighed, clutching the laundry bag full of cushion covers, her resolve now feeling strangely hollow. That night, long after everyone had gone to bed, she stood by the window sipping jeera water. The sofa sat in the dark like a sleeping beast, and for a fleeting second, she remembered her wedding day — sitting right there in a red saree, with a garland slipping off her shoulder, Rajesh beside her awkwardly posing for the camera. They were so young then. She blinked, shook her head, and told herself, “It’s just a piece of furniture.” But it didn’t feel like that anymore.
The next morning was supposed to be simple — kabadiwala arrives, sofa goes, space opens up, everyone moves on. But the Pradhan household had never operated on simple. As the bell rang and the man outside shouted “Sofa pick up!”, chaos bloomed. Arjun claimed he was working on a school science project and needed the sofa as a crash-testing platform. Ananya said she had scheduled a “live farewell video” for her subscribers and needed an extra day. Rajesh mysteriously began developing a “lower back pain” and flopped onto the sofa groaning dramatically. Aaji refused to get up, claiming she was meditating and could not be disturbed “until Hanuman Chalisa ends.” Madhuri stood in the middle of it all, phone in hand, debating whether to cancel the pickup or push through the madness. “Bas kar lo sab log, nautanki ki dukaan ho tum log!” she yelled, trying to restore order. But as the kabadiwala walked in with his assistant and eyed the sofa, even he seemed to pause. “Aunty ji, isko dena hai kya? Bohot purana lagta hai… par asli hai.” It was then that Simba, as if on cue, leaped onto the armrest, gave a low warning growl, and curled into a protective circle, daring anyone to approach. The man laughed nervously and backed off. “Kal aata hoon,” he mumbled, and left. Madhuri dropped into the armchair, exhausted. The sofa remained — victorious, unmoved, and quietly smug. As the family members peeked from behind doorframes, no one said a word, but a strange peace settled across the room. The war had begun — not of removal, but of remembering. What none of them admitted yet was the truth they all shared: they weren’t ready to let go.
Chapter 2
The morning sun filtered through the curtains like a silent witness to conspiracy. Madhuri was up early — determined, lips pursed in resolve, hair pinned tightly in a no-nonsense bun. She had even skipped her ginger chai, an act that in the Pradhan household equated to a national emergency. She stood in the living room with a clipboard, an Excel printout of local furniture dealers, and a torn corner of an old calendar where she had scribbled in red: SOFA PICKUP: 11 AM SHARP. This time, she wasn’t leaving anything to chance. She double-checked the kabadiwala’s number. “Yes, bhaiya. Lane ka rasta clear hai. No society issue today. You just take the damn thing.” Meanwhile, the rest of the family was hatching quiet counterplans in different corners of the house. Arjun, who had stayed up until 2 AM watching YouTube tutorials, was now soldering tiny circuit boards with surgical precision, muttering, “If Iron Man can build a suit in a cave, I can protect this sofa in a duplex.” His mission: rig the old sofa with a motion detector that would trigger an ear-splitting alarm when lifted. Ananya was preparing a backup plan: editing together a dramatic “Farewell to the Sofa” video featuring black-and-white clips, dramatic piano music, and crying emojis. The plan? Upload it, tag local pet rescue groups, and claim Simba had separation anxiety linked to the furniture. Meanwhile, Rajesh wandered around in his vest and lungi, holding a hot water bag to his lower back, randomly quoting orthopedists: “Spine alignment is very sensitive. Years of contour memory… you don’t understand, Madhuri.” His acting was Oscar-worthy — but not convincing enough for his wife, who shot back, “Your spine aligns fine when you go on morning walks with Shinde uncle!” Aaji, on the other hand, remained eerily calm, calmly shelling peas on the sofa like it was any other day. But every now and then, she looked toward the main door and mumbled under her breath, “Dare they touch it.”
By 10:45 AM, the house was a ticking bomb. Madhuri barked orders to Arjun: “Remove your books from the side. And no wires, please!” Arjun, panicking, pulled the circuit board out and stuffed it into his pocket. Rajesh retreated to the balcony, pretending to read “India Today,” but was actually watching the society gate through a pair of binoculars borrowed from a retired Air Force neighbor. Ananya went live on Instagram: “Okay, fam, this might be the last time we see #LegendarySofa. Hit like if you feel my pain.” Meanwhile, Simba, sensing the energy shift, sat in the corner suspiciously wagging his tail. At 11:07 AM, the kabadiwala — a wiry man named Mohan — arrived with his younger cousin and a rusty trolley. “Aunty, ready ho gaya kya?” Madhuri nodded and pointed. The sofa looked oddly regal in the center of the room, like it knew it was being sent into exile. Mohan took one step forward — and that’s when all hell broke loose. Simba barked and jumped between Mohan and the furniture. Aaji stood up and shouted, “Jai Hanuman Gyan Gun Sagar!” and flung a handful of peas in Mohan’s direction, confusing him thoroughly. Arjun’s circuit, accidentally pressed in his pocket, triggered the emergency buzzer — the alarm went off at 110 decibels, wailing like a fire drill. Mohan’s cousin dropped the trolley and yelled, “Bhoot hai kya isme?!” Madhuri tried to calm everyone down, but her phone rang — it was Meenal Aunty from the next building asking, “What’s that noise? Is someone being murdered?” Amid the chaos, Ananya cried dramatically on her livestream. “STOP, YOU MONSTERS!” she shouted, making her followers think it was a prank. Mohan, now sweating bullets, backed out of the flat. “Aunty ji, kal try karte hain. Today’s not good.” He ran before Madhuri could finish yelling. The front door slammed shut. The sofa remained.
The silence afterward was deafening — like the calm after a wedding baraat leaves. Madhuri sat on the floor, eyes wild, saree pallu stuck under one foot, breathing hard. Rajesh emerged from the balcony, dramatically patting his back. “See? Even the universe doesn’t want to part with it.” Arjun peeked out from behind the curtain, fingers still twitching from adrenaline. Ananya gave a victorious smile and updated her vlog caption to: “SOFA 1 – MOM 0”. Aaji went back to shelling peas, now humming an old Lata Mangeshkar song. Even Simba lay down again, tail wagging slowly, satisfied with the defense. For the rest of the day, no one dared mention the word “sofa.” Madhuri avoided eye contact with the entire family and went to the kitchen to make tea, the ultimate Indian coping mechanism. But even as the kettle whistled, she paused and glanced at the old sofa — bruised, battered, but unbeaten. Somewhere deep down, a tiny part of her smiled. Not because she had lost, but because, strangely, the chaos had reminded her of something: her family, in all their madness, had never been more united.
Chapter 3
Three days had passed since the failed operation, and yet, the sofa continued to sit proudly in the center of the Pradhan living room like a stubborn old king refusing exile. Madhuri had tried to rebook Mohan, the kabadiwala, but even he had invented excuses — “Madam, gaadi puncture,” “Madam, bhai ki shaadi hai,” “Madam, bhoot ka case sambhal raha hoon.” It was clear word had spread in the kabadiwala underground that the Pradhan sofa was cursed or fiercely protected. Meanwhile, the family had quietly resumed their routines with a newfound reverence for the now “immortal” sofa. Rajesh began referring to it as “The Throne” and claimed it improved his posture. Arjun scribbled “SOFA BASE ALPHA” on a sticker and turned it into a makeshift lab station. Ananya had turned it into a prop in every one of her new Instagram Reels — from “Desi Mom Reacts to English Songs” to a fake ghost-hunting video where she whispered in a fake accent, “Is that… a crying aunty I hear in the cushions?” Even Aaji began placing fresh marigolds in a bowl beside it, as if it were a home deity. Madhuri, however, was determined to reclaim her living room. She declared, “Enough is enough. You all treat this thing like it’s the Taj Mahal. I’m going to drag it out myself if I have to!” The family chuckled but didn’t argue. They were waiting. Sure enough, that night, something strange happened.
Madhuri woke up around 2 AM, thirsty from too much masala dinner. As she walked toward the kitchen in the dark, she noticed a flickering light coming from the living room. She tiptoed forward and gasped — the sofa was no longer in its usual place. Instead, it was now placed squarely in front of the kitchen entrance. Startled, she switched on the light. Nothing else had moved, but the sofa had somehow shifted itself. Thinking perhaps Rajesh had rearranged furniture in his half-sleep (which would be very unlike him), she sighed and went back to bed. But the next morning, as the family gathered for breakfast, she asked, “Who moved the sofa last night?” All heads turned. Rajesh shook his head. “I thought you did.” Ananya raised an eyebrow. “Wasn’t me, bro.” Arjun said nothing but looked suspiciously innocent. Aaji simply said, “Sometimes, old things find their own place.” That line sent shivers down Ananya’s spine — and gave her an idea. That afternoon, Ananya uploaded a video titled “Is Our Sofa Haunted?!” complete with spooky sound effects, fast-forwarded CCTV clips, and a fake whispering voice saying “Chhod ke mat jao…” The video went viral. Within 12 hours, it had 80,000 views. Comments ranged from “This is fake but fun” to “Bro, I swear I saw a woman in a saree in the reflection!!” Madhuri was livid. “This is our house, not a Ramsay Brothers movie!” But Ananya shrugged. “Content is king, Mummy. And this sofa is pure gold.” For the next two days, the Pradhans had unexpected visitors — college kids asking to take selfies with the sofa. One even brought incense sticks. Madhuri had to put up a PRIVATE PROPERTY – NO VLOGGING sign. But deep inside, a terrifying truth was dawning upon her: the sofa had become a celebrity. And celebrities were harder to remove than furniture.
On the fourth night, in a final act of desperation, Madhuri snuck out of bed at 3 AM and attempted to push the sofa alone. She had measured the corridor. She had cleared the flowerpots. She had worn socks for stealth. But as soon as she began tugging, a loud creak echoed through the hall. Simba barked wildly. Aaji woke up and began shouting Hanuman Chalisa. Ananya opened her door with her camera on. Rajesh appeared with a torch and declared, “Caught in the act!” They all stood around her like a courtroom jury. Madhuri stood frozen, hands on the sofa, disheveled, caught red-handed in the middle of the night like a burglar. Silence stretched for a few awkward seconds. Then, to everyone’s surprise — she started laughing. A deep, exhausted, tearful laugh that echoed through the room. “Fine!” she said, wiping her eyes. “Keep your blessed sofa. Let it stay here. Let it grow old with us. Let us all die on it.” Aaji smiled in satisfaction. Rajesh patted the armrest. Ananya immediately uploaded a new video: “Mom Accepts Sofa as Part of Family” and the comment section exploded with heart emojis. From that night onward, the sofa wasn’t just an object — it was an institution. The family, united in secret sabotage and emotional madness, had saved it. But as the sofa sat quietly that night, back in its old position, everyone knew this wasn’t the end of the chaos. No, the real drama was just beginning.
Chapter 4
The days that followed were anything but ordinary. The sofa, now affectionately nicknamed “Baba Sofa Nath” by Ananya’s growing fanbase, began developing what the family described as… a personality. It began appearing in places where it had no business being — always moved mysteriously, no one ever admitting to it. One morning, it was discovered in the balcony, jammed awkwardly between a dying money plant and two plastic chairs. Rajesh claimed he dragged it there for “fresh air and vitamin D for his back,” but the trail of potato chip crumbs leading from the fridge to the cushion said otherwise. Another night, Aaji was found fast asleep on it near the pooja room, covered in a woollen shawl. When Madhuri asked how it had gotten there, she simply replied, “It wanted darshan.” Even Arjun, who had once declared he was “too grown up for emotional nonsense,” was caught reading comic books sprawled over the center cushion — surrounded by wires and snack wrappers. “It’s the only place where Wi-Fi works properly,” he reasoned. But Madhuri wasn’t fooled. The final straw came when she entered the kitchen and found the sofa — yes, the entire sofa — somehow parked outside the pantry door, as if guarding the pickles. That morning, she didn’t yell. She didn’t protest. She simply stared at the behemoth piece of upholstery like it was a family member who’d overstayed its welcome by twenty-five years.
Tired of the sneaky relocations and the slow but steady sofa coup taking place in her own home, Madhuri did what every Indian mother eventually does when cornered — she organized a family meeting. At 8 PM sharp, armed with an Excel sheet of furniture outlets and a PowerPoint presentation titled “Upgrade Your Seating: A Vision for 2025”, she called everyone to the living room. “This sofa,” she began, clicking to Slide 1, which featured a cracked cushion zoomed in like a pathology report, “is a health hazard. It has a tilt of 17.4 degrees on the left, emits a smell of stale cumin, and harbors enough dust to start an agriculture course.” Rajesh raised his hand. “Point of objection. That cumin smell is from my Kurkure packet.” Arjun snorted. Ananya clicked a photo of the slide and added “#SofaTrial2025” to her story. Madhuri pressed on. “We will be replacing it. It is final. Majority or not.” But as she continued with graphs and diagrams, the energy in the room shifted. Rajesh glanced at the sofa, remembering the time he had slept on it for three nights after their first big fight. Ananya remembered lying on it with her friends during board exam stress, crying over a Shah Rukh Khan movie. Arjun recalled building a blanket fort around it one monsoon evening when the lights went out. Aaji sat silently, knitting, her feet propped on the ottoman, not looking up even once. When Madhuri finished and asked, “Any objections?”, the silence that followed was not disobedient — it was reverent. A kind of hush that surrounds old temples and dusty diaries. “Okay,” she finally said. “Fine. We won’t throw it out. But no more moving it!” The room erupted in agreement. They had won. But even they didn’t know — the sofa had plans of its own.
That night, long after the PowerPoint had been closed and the dinner plates washed, Ananya crept out of her room. She tiptoed to the hall and turned on the lamp — soft, yellow light fell on the sofa. She adjusted her tripod, framed the perfect shot, and whispered into her mic: “Day 27. The Sofa is alive. Tonight, we test if it moves without anyone touching it.” She began recording a timelapse, placing a ladoo from the fridge on the armrest as bait, and tiptoed back. But she wasn’t the only one with midnight ideas. Rajesh had woken up hungry and decided to sleep-watch some cricket reruns. As he settled into the sofa, munching loudly, the timelapse kept recording. Then Arjun wandered in with a soldering iron and a new idea for a gaming controller. He plugged in his circuit, right next to Rajesh’s foot. Then Aaji, slightly disoriented, came in looking for her rosary and decided to just sit down, resting her knees. And Simba — sensing his entire pack in one place — climbed up too. In the morning, Ananya checked the footage and gasped. The sofa, which had started the night empty, slowly filled up one by one — as if magnetically pulling everyone toward it. No words were spoken. No plans were made. They had all just ended up there, again. Ananya didn’t post the video. Instead, she quietly named it: “Home Base.” And as she walked into the kitchen, she smiled. The sofa hadn’t just survived — it had reclaimed its throne without lifting a single leg.
Chapter 5
It started with a photo. Ananya was sorting through her old hard drive for vlog footage when she stumbled upon a folder titled “2009_FamilyFun.” Inside it were pixelated treasures: photos from birthday parties, school send-offs, rainy day selfies, Diwali evenings, and even one hilariously blurred picture of Rajesh falling asleep with a samosa in hand. In nearly every frame, the one constant — silent and stoic — was the sofa. Sometimes covered with a red kantha quilt, sometimes hidden under a plastic sheet for “guests only,” and sometimes embarrassingly patched with white tape during a dog pee incident. Curious, she called Arjun over. “Look at this one,” she giggled, pointing to a picture where he had stuck sketch pens into the cushions like they were sword sheaths. Arjun laughed, then stared a bit longer. “Wait… that’s the day I got my science trophy.” He remembered sitting on that sofa for hours afterward, clutching the award, while Aaji made shrikhand. That one moment triggered more — the rain outside, the smell of wet socks, Rajesh humming an old Kishore song. Ananya and Arjun looked at each other and suddenly realized: the sofa wasn’t just furniture. It was a family album they had been sitting on the whole time.
Later that evening, they gathered around with a large bowl of popcorn and a USB drive full of those old photos. For the first time in weeks, the living room felt like its old self — not a war zone of sabotage, but a circle of warmth. The TV screen flickered with memories: Ananya in a fairy costume on Children’s Day, Rajesh playing the tabla while Aaji clapped in rhythm, Madhuri holding a baby Arjun wrapped in a blue towel. Every clip brought laughter, then quiet, then more laughter. Even Madhuri, who had stood firm on letting the sofa go, sat back into its sagging comfort without protest. “That’s when your Baba slipped and blamed it on Simba,” she said, chuckling, pointing at the screen. “It was gulab jamun syrup, not the dog.” Rajesh grinned sheepishly. Aaji leaned back with moist eyes and whispered, “Baba tumcha sagla ya thikani aaj pan ahe…” (“Your grandfather is still here in this very place…”) Her voice cracked, and for a moment, silence blanketed the room. No one knew what to say. It wasn’t grief. It was something deeper — that strange aching joy of being rooted. A couch so ordinary, so stained and sunken, had quietly cradled decades of growing up, growing old, falling out, coming back together.
As the lights dimmed and the family curled up like cats around the cushions — Ananya on one armrest with her laptop, Arjun stretched out with a schoolbook he wouldn’t read, Rajesh sipping chai, Madhuri leaning on his shoulder, Aaji humming a forgotten tune — the sofa seemed to breathe with them. They didn’t need to speak anymore. The argument, the sabotage, the emotional blackmail — all had melted into shared memory. It was Arjun who broke the silence first. “Mummy… I think we should never throw this away. Ever.” Madhuri smiled without looking at him. “We already didn’t.” Outside, Pune’s monsoon drizzled gently against the windows. Simba snored softly beneath the sofa, and Ananya, closing her laptop, said, “Let’s not post this one. Let’s just… keep it for us.” And so, for the first time in weeks, no plan was hatched, no removal scheduled, no sabotage plotted. The sofa remained — not because it couldn’t be moved, but because now, nobody wanted to. It was no longer an object. It was, simply, home.
Chapter 6
It was a sunny Saturday morning when Madhuri received the message that changed everything: “Coming today. 12 PM. Have help. Will collect.” It was from Mohan the kabadiwala, who had clearly built up the courage — or perhaps gathered a gang — to come for the sofa again. This time, he wasn’t alone. At exactly noon, a large blue tempo pulled up at the Pradhans’ society gate with “R.K. Furniture Salvage – We Remove The Past!” written in chipped paint on the side. Out came Mohan, flanked by two young men in neon jackets and one elderly fellow who looked like he could bench-press a cupboard. Rajesh spotted them from the balcony and dropped his cup of chai mid-sip. “Invasion,” he muttered. Madhuri, in her crispest cotton saree and with a ladle in hand, declared, “This time, I won’t stop them.” But as she walked toward the front door, a strange tension began crackling in the house. Arjun dashed to his room with a suspicious bundle under his arm. Ananya disappeared with her ring light and phone. Aaji suddenly announced she was fasting — sitting directly on the sofa with her prayer thali and refusing to move “for religious reasons.” Simba parked himself in front of the couch with a low, continuous growl — the kind that made strangers wonder if they had rabies.
Mohan and his crew entered the house like an army entering disputed territory. They looked at the sofa, then at the family. No one moved. “Aunty,” he said hesitantly, “Bas isko leke jaana hai, dus minute.” Madhuri opened her mouth to say yes — but paused. Aaji suddenly burst into a loud chant: “राम राम जय राजा राम…” followed by the ringing of a steel bell she had conjured from nowhere. Rajesh, groaning theatrically, lay down on the sofa and claimed, “My back has fused with this cushion. I am one with it.” Arjun activated a motion-sensor speaker from his phone which screamed in a robotic voice, “INTRUDER DETECTED. STEP AWAY FROM THE COUCH.” Mohan flinched. Then, from the hallway, Ananya emerged dressed in a white saree, hair untied, dark kajal smudged under her eyes. She whispered, “This sofa is cursed… the last man who touched it… never walked again.” She played a spooky voice clip from her phone, and the tempo driver outside screamed, “Bhai, mujhe lagta hai andar aatma hai!” Mohan, now pale, backed out slowly. “Aunty, sorry. I think today’s not the right energy. Vaastu issue, maybe.” As the crew fled, Rajesh sat up like Lazarus and declared, “And that’s how we defend the homeland.” The door closed. Silence. Then everyone burst into laughter — even Madhuri. She threw the ladle aside and collapsed on the armrest. “Pagal ho gaye ho sab. I love it.” Ananya livestreamed the moment with the caption: “DEFENDED OUR HERITAGE. #SofaLives #FamilyGoals.”
But what happened after the invasion was even more unexpected. The Pradhan family, exhausted by their theatrical defense, sat together on the sofa like survivors of a minor war. Rajesh brought a plate of steaming batata vadas. Arjun fetched mango pickle. Ananya dimmed the lights and played an old Lata Mangeshkar vinyl on her portable speaker. Aaji smiled and fed Simba a biscuit. For the first time in years, the family wasn’t watching TV, wasn’t scrolling on their phones, wasn’t rushing anywhere. They were just… there. Sharing food, laughter, memories, and silence. “We should do this more often,” Ananya said, softly. “What, defend furniture from furniture men?” Rajesh asked. “No, baba,” she chuckled. “Sit together.” Madhuri looked around and realized something beautiful had happened: in trying so hard to protect something old, they had stitched together something new. And in that golden-hour stillness, with soft songs and chai and a mischievous dog licking crumbs off the rug, the Pradhans realized that the sofa wasn’t just an heirloom anymore — it was their gathering place, their theatre, their stage, their history. And nothing — not kabadiwalas, not common sense, not society rules — was going to take it away.
Chapter 7
It began, as most neighborhood wars do, with a WhatsApp forward. Meenal Aunty from Flat 5B — self-declared “unofficial president of Prithvi Vihar Housing Society” — forwarded a grainy picture of the Pradhan family’s sofa blocking the hallway outside their door (the same day it had been rolled out “for sunlight and blessings,” according to Rajesh). The message, titled “General Nuisance Alert”, read:
“Dear All, a large and unsightly object has been spotted outside Flat 3A (Pradhan family). Request urgent removal as it is obstructing our sacred corridor and is possibly haunted (see Ananya’s YouTube video). Society rules = for ALL! #CommunityDiscipline.”
Within minutes, the group chat was on fire. “It’s a fire hazard,” typed Mr. Shukla from 6C. “It has termites,” added Mrs. Kapoor from 2A. Someone even posted an edited picture of the sofa with ghostly eyes and labeled it “Bhoot Ki Kursi.” That evening, a formal letter was slipped under the Pradhans’ door:
“Notice of Violation: Non-removal of expired domestic furniture from common property. Action may be taken.”
Madhuri sighed as she picked it up. “Now they’re sending legal notices about a sofa.” Rajesh read it twice and muttered, “Even our income tax office sounds more polite.” Ananya screeched, “They used Comic Sans!” Arjun, however, had an idea: “We need a counter-offensive. We start our own WhatsApp group: SaveTheSofaSquad.”
And so, the battle lines were drawn. On one side: the society committee, armed with rules, regulations, passive-aggressive texts, and black-and-white PDF circulars. On the other: the Pradhans, armed with nostalgia, sarcasm, memes, and overacting. Ananya created a petition titled “Preserve Cultural Furniture!” and added 200 digital signatures from her fanbase. Rajesh wrote a fake heritage certificate for the sofa, calling it “a living artifact from pre-liberalization India” and citing references to 90s DD serials shot on similar couches. Aaji began loudly declaring in the stairwell, “Kal toh logon ne murti uthayi thi! Aaj sofa? Aage kya? Mujhe bhi?” Arjun Photoshopped the sofa next to Ratan Tata and wrote “Even Sir would never throw this away.” The final act came when Simba, unknowingly aiding the rebellion, peed outside Meenal Aunty’s door. She responded by proposing a Society Cleanliness Committee Emergency Meeting. The Pradhans were summoned. At the meeting, Madhuri stood up and, with the poise of a Shakespearean actress, delivered a speech no one saw coming:
“Yes, the sofa is old. Yes, it sags. But so does the banyan tree. Shall we chop it too? This sofa has survived floods, blackouts, and heartbreak. It is not garbage. It is memory. And if you insist on removing it—”
She paused.
“—then take me with it.”
The room fell silent. Someone clapped. Then more clapping. Aaji blew her nose into a handkerchief. And Meenal Aunty, though unmoved, said only, “Fine. But it stays inside your flat. Not one inch out.”
With the war over and borders redrawn, the Pradhans returned home as unlikely heroes. The sofa was cleaned, perfumed, and placed back in its rightful spot — not as an eyesore, but as a throne reclaimed. That night, they held a small ceremony. Arjun placed fairy lights around it. Ananya recited a poem titled “Where We Sat and Became Ourselves.” Rajesh played his old harmonium, while Aaji gave blessings by sprinkling rosewater. Madhuri, though pretending to be annoyed, served everyone gulab jamuns. It was the quietest, warmest victory the family had ever tasted. Outside, the corridor remained clear. But inside Flat 3A, history sat proudly — upholstered, battered, beloved. The sofa had weathered another storm. And the Pradhans had become, without planning it, the oddball historians of their own home.
Chapter 8
It happened on a perfectly ordinary Thursday. The family had just finished dinner — leftover rajma, parathas, and Madhuri’s famous aam ka achaar — when Rajesh, stretching like a cat across the middle cushion of the sofa, let out a dramatic yawn and rrrriiiiipppp. Everyone froze. The sound sliced through the living room like a thunderclap. Rajesh sat up slowly, looked down — and there it was: a jagged tear in the middle seam of the sofa, nearly eight inches long, revealing yellow foam that looked like old haldi. “It’s… it’s nothing,” he stammered, covering it with a magazine. But the damage was done. Arjun leapt forward. “Nooo! This is the emotional fault line!” Ananya gasped and filmed it immediately. “Sofa Down. Repeat. Sofa Down,” she whispered dramatically. Aaji muttered, “Shubh nahi hai.” And Madhuri, crossing her arms, said, “Toh? What did I say? It was bound to give up. Just like your Papa’s hairline.” That night, the house felt quieter than usual. No one sat on the sofa. It was like a wounded animal, left alone to rest. Even Simba curled up on the carpet instead. The once-indestructible, twice-saved, society-defying sofa had finally surrendered… to age.
The next morning, the family stood around it like mourners. “We could call an upholsterer,” Rajesh suggested weakly. “Won’t be the same,” Ananya said. “We could patch it,” Arjun offered, “like those denim jacket hacks.” “I can stitch,” Aaji said quietly. And then, to everyone’s surprise, Madhuri brought out an old wooden sewing box. “We won’t replace it,” she said, “but we will give it a second life. Together.” And so, Operation Restoration began. They cleared the entire living room. Arjun fetched glue guns and thread. Aaji soaked old cotton saree scraps. Rajesh — who hadn’t sewn anything since accidentally stitching his pyjama pocket shut in 1992 — was tasked with cushion-fluffing. Ananya set up a camera, but this time, not for content. “Just for memory,” she said. Simba kept guard. Over the next few hours, the family worked like a team. Arjun patched foam with cardboard. Madhuri ironed cloth. Aaji stitched the first seam with her gold-threaded precision. Ananya gently trimmed the excess. Rajesh narrated moral support like a cricket commentator. “And there! Aji with the off-spin needlework! Fantastic wristwork!” By sunset, the tear had disappeared, replaced by a beautiful patch made from Aaji’s wedding saree — pink with golden paisley work. It looked odd. It looked out of place. It looked… perfect.
When they stepped back and looked at it, none of them spoke for a while. It was still the same sofa. Still sagging slightly on the left. Still carrying curry ghosts and biscuit crumbs. But now, stitched with their own hands, it had become something more. “It’s not furniture anymore,” Arjun said. “It’s… family history.” Madhuri nodded. “It’s imperfect. Like all of us.” Rajesh added, “But we fixed it. Together.” Ananya uploaded one final photo — not a reel, not a viral edit — just a simple caption:
“Not everything old needs to be replaced. Some things just need to be repaired — with love.”
The likes poured in, but that didn’t matter anymore. What mattered was this: in a world obsessed with upgrading, discarding, and replacing — the Pradhans had chosen to preserve, stitch, and remember. That night, the family gathered around the sofa again — Ananya with her book, Arjun with his gadgets, Rajesh with a hot water bottle, Aaji humming, Simba wagging. And Madhuri, sipping her chai, looked around and whispered, “No one touches this ever again.” The Great Sofa Heist was over. The sofa had won. But more importantly, so had they.
Chapter 9
The walls of Flat 3A had changed — repainted thrice, windows replaced, the kitchen modernized with sleek cabinets and touch faucets. But one thing hadn’t moved: the sofa. Now faded into a patchwork relic of cloth, thread, stories, and stubbornness, it sat like a quiet elder in the corner of the drawing room, bathed in soft sunlight. Arjun was home from the US with his own family — a seven-year-old daughter named Meera who refused to sit anywhere but the sofa. “It’s the bouncy one, Papa!” she said. Ananya, now a freelance filmmaker, had returned for a break after months of shooting in Himachal. She dragged in a heavy hard drive. “I’m finally finishing it,” she said, patting the old couch. “The documentary. About us. About this.” Rajesh, now slightly slower, still brought his chai to the same left-side cushion every evening at 6 PM, where his back curved perfectly into the sag. Aaji had passed peacefully three years ago, but her embroidered paisley patch still gleamed golden in the evening sun — never stitched over, never replaced. And Madhuri, with more silver in her hair and more silence in her words, dusted the sofa gently every morning. Not because it needed it, but because it deserved it.
It was during one of these quiet mornings that Ananya sat beside her mother, holding a thick album of old photos and printouts from her viral posts over the years. “I’ve had offers, you know,” she said softly. “To do a web series based on this whole sofa thing. You remember that kabadiwala? Mohan Bhai? He runs a YouTube channel now — Haunted Hauls.” Madhuri chuckled. “World’s gone mad.” “Or maybe,” Ananya replied, “we were just ahead of our time.” The sofa was now more than just a piece of furniture — it was part of family lore, whispered about to Meera like bedtime mythology. “Did you know,” Ananya told her niece, “your grandpa once fought off a kabadiwala army just to save this?” Meera’s eyes widened. “Like superheroes?” “Exactly like that.” Later that evening, as everyone gathered — Ananya, Arjun, Meera, and Rajesh — Madhuri brought a tray of samosas and said, “Everyone sit here. One last time.” They crowded onto the cushions, now soft as memory. Meera perched on her grandfather’s lap, Ananya adjusted the camera on a tripod, and Arjun opened a chilled bottle of Maaza from the fridge. Click. A photo was taken. The sofa, though silent, seemed to sigh with them. It had seen them cry, laugh, fight, fall apart, stitch back together — and now, it was watching the next generation fold into its embrace.
That night, when the house fell asleep, Ananya sat in the living room alone. The edited footage of her documentary played quietly on her laptop. Soft music in the background. Images of a younger Aaji threading a needle. Rajesh doing sit-ups and calling it yoga. Simba barking at a kabadiwala van. Arjun rigging alarm circuits. Madhuri banging a ladle in frustration. She smiled. A tear fell. She leaned back into the sofa and whispered, “Thank you for not giving up on us.” The sofa didn’t reply, but it didn’t need to. It had already spoken — in fabric, in stitches, in sag, in stories. As Ananya clicked “EXPORT FINAL CUT,” she titled the project:
“The Great Sofa Heist: A Family in Three Cushions.”
Outside, the Pune breeze fluttered the curtains. The city had changed. The flat had changed. Even the people had changed. But the sofa — that stubborn, loyal, ridiculous sofa — remained. As always.
Chapter 10
Time has its own rhythm — gentle, persistent, invisible. Fifteen years had passed since the sofa’s great rebellion. Meera was now in college, studying design. Arjun and his wife visited only during festivals. Ananya had settled into an award-winning career in documentaries, her first major feature still remembered by fans as “that film with the immortal sofa.” Rajesh had slowed down significantly, spending most of his days near the window, wrapped in his shawl. Madhuri’s back had begun to ache from years of cooking, cleaning, and holding the house together — yet every morning, her first ritual was still the same: gently wiping the old sofa’s surface with a soft cloth, as though touching a photograph. One evening, as she and Rajesh sat side by side, sharing quiet sips of masala chai, the inevitable conversation surfaced. “I think,” Rajesh began, “it’s time.” Madhuri didn’t reply for a long while. “Yes,” she finally said, setting her cup down. “But only if we do it our way.”
A week later, the Pradhans threw a Sofa Farewell Party. The invite — handwritten and copied on WhatsApp — read:
“You are cordially invited to say goodbye to the fifth and most loyal member of our family: our sofa. Dress code: Home clothes. Emotions: High.”
Neighbors came. Old kabadiwala Mohan arrived in a kurta with a plate of laddoos. Former building secretary Meenal Aunty gifted a garland made of marigolds and said, “Even I had to admit… that thing grew on us.” Ananya decorated the living room with printed photos — Aaji stitching the paisley patch, baby Meera asleep on the cushion, Simba mid-jump, Arjun’s “Do Not Sit – Circuit Under Test” signs. They even screened snippets from the viral videos. Arjun, now tall and bearded, played his guitar softly as Ananya read a poem:
“It held our weight, our worries, our laughter and crumbs.
It caught falling tears and toppled mugs.
It was not just stitched — it was stitched into us.”
Everyone clapped. Some cried. Even Rajesh cleared his throat suspiciously. Then came the final act — the sofa, lifted with reverence, carried gently not out to be dumped, but to a small spot under the old neem tree in the society garden, now converted into a mini reading nook. Covered with a canopy, surrounded by potted plants, it looked not like discarded furniture — but like a grandfather retired into a quiet, peaceful corner.
A brass plaque was nailed into the wooden frame. It read:
“The Pradhan Sofa (1991–2024): May All Who Sit Here Find Comfort, Chaos & Chai.”
That evening, long after the guests had left, Madhuri and Rajesh sat beside it one last time. The breeze rustled through the neem leaves, and the sky turned the shade of old turmeric. “We did good,” Rajesh whispered. “We didn’t throw it away. We let it rest.” Madhuri smiled. “Like all elders deserve to.” In the days that followed, the sofa became a landmark. Children read comics on it. Teenagers took selfies. Couples whispered promises. Someone even proposed there. But the Pradhans knew — no matter how far life carried them — this humble, sagging, lovingly patched-up couch was more than a place to sit. It was a place that held them. It had been their battleground, their sanctuary, their stage, their comfort. And now, as they let it go, they weren’t letting go of history — they were making room for more.
And so ended The Great Sofa Heist.
A story not about furniture — but about family. About fighting for the things that carry you, even when the world says they’re old.
Because sometimes, the greatest love stories… are upholstered in faded fabric.
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