Want stain-free rugs? Shall I delete that mail? On second thought, it connects me to visions submerged beneath a deep pile carpet.

When I was a child we had a strange-looking carpet in the living room. The camel-coloured background had geometrical splashes all around. We may have spilled a lot of things on it – peanuts, cashews, sherbet, milk -- as cushions came tumbling down.

I spent many an afternoon watching cricket matches seated on the carpet.

The other one was always kept rolled up in another room. For years I did not know what it looked like. I would sit on the cylindrical ‘seat’; it was a bit prickly as though its underside was made of dry grass. It made my skin feel soft and vulnerable, like any hurtful thing would do. Yet, I veered towards it almost every day, often cutting out square pieces of paper to make patterns and looking at it through the holes.

That carpet was like a pipe dream…if I peeped into it from the end I saw nothing. It seemed to hold secrets and I imagined it as a thing of such splendour that it had to be left untainted.

One day they rolled it out. I could hear the sound of it being brushed – krrr…krrrr… it was a harsh sound. I went through the balcony entrance towards the room and there was a faint smell of antiseptic and perspiration. The carpet must have sweated all these months.

I hesitated as I walked in and refused to look at the floor. I wanted to heighten the tension between me and this fantasy world I had created for an inanimate object. I picked up the courage finally to lower my gaze. A dull olive green embossed with another self-effacing shade of the same colour stared back at me.

I felt disappointed. Had I invested so much of my emotions in what would turn out to be something so ordinary, so lacking in character, in passion? It had no stains. I don’t think it ever would, or at least they would not show. It was meant for camouflage. I disliked it.

Today, it is not the same house. A lot has happened. If I had a rolled-up carpet, I would still imagine things about it. For a while there was a small rug in the living area in a traditional pattern in maroon-red with blue and other colours; it smelled of the soil, of weavers.

Now that too has gone, a faded glory.

What I like best is that the the floor is white. The marble feels cold to the touch. And I can even see myself walking. Every step I take is mirrored in it. Reflecting reflections.