The room looked just as I love it. Dark, clean and with
things exactly the way I left them in the morning. I could see my favourite
chair in its place and my charger lying on the bed. I noticed the empty glass
of water resting on the table. The image from the portrait smiled at me. The
bed was neat and the blankets folded, just as I liked. The room emanated
fragrance in a way I can’t describe. It was the smell of home; the smell that
tells me I am at a place where my heart belongs. The sea-green walls gave me
comfort. The curtains flew as if to show they were happy to have me back. The
clock that stopped working two days ago caught my attention and the calendar
had to be changed. The cupboards stared at me. The marbled floor shone. Sun
light protruded through the slight opening in the window. I noticed the scattered particles of dust that sat on the top most almarah and sighed like I do every
day. The fact that I don’t find time to dust it off surprised me, like every
day.
I call this room my cave, a place where I can sit for hours
doing absolutely nothing and still feel contented. The room that saw me grow and the walls that know all
my secrets. The books that I love adorn the biggest shelf and my portraits the
other. What will I not give to stay here forever? Through the years, I could
never fathom my obsession with the four walls. Why is it that I lose all
boundaries and go into thinking sprees that I usually cannot enter elsewhere?
What is it that happens to me when I enter this particular room? Is it just a
feeling of comfort or is it all in my head? Do the colours make my mind think
or do the experiences within these four walls ring a bell?
Is it me or is it you too? Do you have places that haunt you,
places that make you think? Amidst the
baffling activities each day and all the untold stories, I find keen audience
in the inanimate room that I obsess about. I guess, the silence here allows me
to think in a way I want to and helps me shatter the boundaries I have set for
myself. Like no other part of the house, my room makes me feel at home.
Situated right in the middle of the house, it makes me feel authoritative allowing me to
supervise. The fact that nobody can walk in without being seen by me, the fact
that no snacks can be secretly sneaked in and the fact that the kitchen is
hardly ten steps away might be a very good reason I am obsessed.
It’s been 11 years we had moved into the house and since then I
have been trying to come up with a logical explanation as to why this room is
dear to me. I am pretty sure it’s not because I sleep there or because my
things are in there, because if that's case, my things are found in every room of
the house. There is a reason I can’t come up with or maybe there isn’t a reason
at all. If I know that someone else feels the same too, I’ll know it has to do
with the connection one shares.
My room gives me ideas to write but also leaves me tongue
tied with the inability to write. Just as I was wondering about how long to put
up with this bout, I pulled out my book of ideas from beneath the bed. With a
million thoughts wandering in my head, with uncountable sentences I wrote and
stopped mid-way and re-calling all the suggestions I heard, I stared at the
half written words and sentences in my book. Today, I decided to tie them all
in a loop and write whatever comes to my head. And, I am glad I did it. After
nearly a three month hiatus, it gives me joy to fill a page and flip it to the
next. I don’t know where all these words disappeared for so long, maybe all the
therapy I needed was to talk to someone about it and get down to work.
I sat down beside the rectangular window, pushing aside the
curtains and allowing the sunlight stream in abundance. My eyes scanned across
the bright room, giving me just the exact push I needed.
What a room did, nothing else could!
