A Room With A View

Sunday mornings, so looked forward to after a long week full of tiresome days and unforgiving minutes. As the day stretched out in its finite span.. I realized the number of chores that I had been neglecting for the past many weeks. I began to think about planning the day. Didn’t have to look far though. One glance at my room ... and the course was set.

In thorough shambles, the room needed to be spruced up. And not just because I wanted to please ma. It was becoming difficult to find one’s way around. Though I don’t mind it. There is an order to the disorder.

Books and magazines strewn across, laptop resting on my bed, clothes lying off the hangers, pens and pencils scattered around, unread newspapers dating back to last week, a news clipping floating in the bedside shelf, mobile plugged in the charger, shopping bag and handbag all tangled up, headphones lolling around. The wardrobe with an internal mess of its own. Comb, kaajal and lip-gloss fighting for space on a table crowded with scribbled scraps of paper. And a fragment of myself. This is my room.

Anyways.. I began to go through the room systematically. I began with my favourite corner- my bookshelf. It’s always a real treat to look at it. Literally living out of a suitcase for the past two years, it was a visual delight to see them lined up in a shelf, rather two shelves. Needless to say more than four-fifths of them had not been read. They were picked up just for that reason. To be read at a later date... when I could wrap myself up in them and sit under a shade for long hours of solitude. While re-arranging them in a new way (genre-wise), I recalled the history of acquisition of each book. Each had a story to tell. I could recall my first training- in Salt Lake City, Kolkata, when I was dutifully carrying a copy of ‘ City of Joy’ in my bag. A book of all times and a must read for any genuine lover of non-fiction. Then came the various postings and the incessant travelling to and from home. Each such trip would bring in its wake a visit to the neighbouring book shop for a travelling companion. Book haunts being my favourite trips, I would set off without any company, although fervently wishing for one. If browsing alone is heaven, then browsing with someone means having fun in heaven. One such day out was with my close friend Aditi, to the Delhi book fair which came about by serendipity. Armed with a shopping bag, a thousand bucks each and a resolve to ‘just browse and buy only verrrrrry selectively’, we waltzed our way inside. Only to lose our step. Though not as big as the world book fair, it still boasted of a good collection. Buying paperbacks at throwaway prices, that too rarity likes Ibsen’s plays and Mark Twain. It was there that I shook hands with Hindi literature and bought a variety of authors, much to Aditi’s surprise. “ Are you sure you are going to read them? You don’t look that educated.” –she raised an eyebrow at me. “I can at least make a try.”- I smiled back lazily. After a trip to the nearest ATM, one cornetto each and four-five hours, we ended up with a full bag, tired feet and happy faces. ...... and they smile back too..

Having arranged them well, I turned to the various posters colouring the walls. Not actually very fond of spoiling the walls, I had developed this habit in Delhi, where I had covered the wall lining my bed with pics of frenz and family. The pics were off now, as I was at home now and ma certainly doesn’t appreciate this kind of wall papering. But the cheeky poster of Garfield saying ‘ I may not always be right but I am never wrong’ still adorns the almirah frame.

But somethings never change. The switchboard near my bed is a tangled web of wires- what with the laptop and charger and the modem and the speaker. And I still keep my head where the feet should be and the feet where the head should be. And I still sometimes sleep with my head on my laptop and the lights on. An old habit of mine, sleeping on my books, with ma or papa checking up on me and turning off the lights after taking off my specs.

There is a clock on the wall which faces me and a calendar on the one behind me. Both glaring reminders of the time which has never stood still, while the room has changed forms and addresses.

There is a cupboard full of clothes, both well-worn and new. The accumulation of the various shopping excursions.

My handbag lies in a corner, resting on its haunches after a week full of carrying my stuff. There lies a diary in a corner with lines scribbled in pencil in it. There hangs the echo of music last played.

But there is more to my room than just four walls. There are memories of lazy evenings spent with family, relaxing in that familiar warmth. That warmth still persists. There are voices from the conversations held with friends over the telephone- the tears shed over fights, the giggles and the wisdom shared. There is the feel of papa’s cuddles as I cried over my lost piece of jigsaw. There are sisterly confidences, shared over cups of coffee. There is the touch of ma’s care as I shivered in high fever. There are the shards of broken dreams. There are the missing vowels of unspelt ambitions. There is the tension of silent rebellion. There is the anguish of an uneasy mind. There are footprints of a journey. There also lies the cloak of acquired wisdom. There is the serenity of a mind at rest. There are blushes of the first crush . There are smiles and there are tears. There are injuries and there is healing. There is success and there is failing.

There are pieces of the old skin. There is the fragrance of the new one. There is the strength of determination, the dull ache of perseverance, the glimmer of resilience, the mirror of humility , the joy of hope. There are glimpses of achievement, depths of hollowness and the patience of a sphinx.

There are the smiles of first love and the resignation of solitude.

My room has a view of its own though. It carries the smell of wood. It’s welcoming to friendly eyes and smiles but wards off strangers and mockery. It argues and it debates. With the other rooms in my home for its independence but not isolation. It embraces and cuddles when I am lonely. It shares my secrets and keeps them safe. It pampers me and spoils me and handles my mood swings. It’s seen me laughing crazily, fuming angrily, weeping bitterly and giggling childishly. It’s heard me talking to my friends. Like Bridget Jones diary, it keeps a record of all that happens. Like its occupant, it changes moods and becomes naughty and sober by turn. . Like the unfinished lines in an article written randomly, it contains many unfinished sentences, words not fully formed and speech yet unarticulated.

It’s not just a room now. It’s an extension of me. And contains a portion of me. It moves around with me. Accompanying me to my work, my friends place, a party or a walk. And what it learns , it keeps adding to the murals of my four walls.

The perfect wallpaper.