a place taken

A new home means large windows that can be swung open with every bit of strength that limp hands just woken from sleep can muster. Brighter, cleaner sunlight splashes itself over every inch of white space.
Four little black marks on the floor tell me there was a sofa there that someone cushioned into every evening after work. They had a TV, and you had to lie on the sofa if you had to watch. The bathroom floor dips a little by the tap, where someone stood singing "Vaa di yen kappa kezhange" through the mugs of water dribbling down his/her face. The mostloved windows open in smooth swishes, while others screech dryly. Strangely, the kitchen is unsolved - even if someone ate too much garlic, mango, fish, ghee or coconut, it has been distempered.
Walkedabout houses are like yellowing books. They say, "I've been enjoyed." Some doors handles are wrung more, some balconies more smoked in. The top shelf in the wardrobe, it seems, had sheltered a few gods who bathed in sandalwood incense. Someone who didn't believe in diets went to the commode a lot, and now it's a crater because of the weight. There's a leaky tap still sticky with scotchtape efforts. A rusted shower telling of times when Cauvery wasn't impartial. Pigeon crap that helps track which windows were left open too long.
Ok the last one, I want to wish away. I picked up one little curled up crapball yesterday while cleaning the bathroom. With bare fingers! That has got to offset all my sins.
Now to find cellotape and leave my poster marks for the next tenant to appreciate.