Letter to my room

Life is eccentric, no? Life as it can be, ugly, beautiful, hopeless and sometimes miraculous. It exhibits all colors; it doesn’t come in black and white alone. See it differently; you will realize it comes in all shades and shapes. Sometimes we miss omissible things, especially when we are far from home, we miss it, it’s every corner, it’s every niche, so do, we miss the most “our rooms”. Can our rooms speak? Can they tell us a story? I believe they do. Such is the story I share with my room. Its incompleteness completes me. It solaces when nobody does. I still remember that night I came back after spending one year away from it. Night was dreadfully silent. I opened the door with much excitement. My room had become a fortress, my separation has boarded up its every window, overturned every curtain, the mothballed odor of my bed sheet said it all, and it was ruined by my absence.

Ouch, I was stunningly surprised. The moment I stepped in, I lingered. I couldn’t stop myself from touching its every corner every space. I was cursing my family trying to find an answer, what stopped them from traversing into my room. It was in gloom, why didn’t they comfort it, cleared out the mess and maybe wept with it. But, it was mine, who else would have listened to the cries that oozed from my walls, from my unread books, who was there to answer.

For the year it yearned for opening, no, it waited for me, my presence enthralls it. It was under siege. My absence has haunted it, as it was occupied by Jinns. Even Jinns couldn’t unlock its obscurity. My apologies won’t console it, my presence will. Even being miles away from it why I couldn’t hear the cries, the yowls it uttered out in my remembrance.

I pressed the inward on the tiny front door of my wardrobe, there was packet of candies (expired though) remembering how my father used to get these and how I every time stored its wafers. Last summer I forgot to eat them. My room seemed flimsy and tenuous. I am not sure whether I believe in literal ghosts or not but memories, feelings and regrets certainly haunt. You have not only been a home to my tears and regrets but embraced my laughter, my silly jokes and unnecessary banter. Weren’t you my best friend when I was ditched by another? Didn’t I cry like a baby and you were there solacing me and warming me up. I know you possess a pulse, a beat. I have found a life in you. Words become foreign to express how I feel; my language may get gibberish but my dear room your presence connotes a sense of belonging. Your warmth creates a shelter of peace. Do you remember when mom was unwell, how I snatched those tiny moments to weep with you, and you kept those secrets. You have been like a trooper who provided me with privacy, affection and tranquility. I remember every time I descended into that life of scorn, you were there to comfort.

You have seen my beautiful and ugly side. You have read every book with me. The bookshelves, the racks, the paintings, the family pictures, my music system, and even the empty mug you have been a sole witness to all my interactions and activities. I remember that red carpet that dad has gotten from a fare, how it burned down to ashes when I accidentally stepped onto my heating pot. I was so embarrassed. But you accepted me without fury. You know I am not an organized person, I have been in love with mess. I keep you messy and you don’t complain.  After all the hardships I put you through, you have been there like a rock, comforting me, telling me your tales and listening to my mini heartbreaks. When I look at you, I am reminded of all the memories and experiences we shared, you’re an art in itself my dear room. Sometimes it is astounding how you know so much that even I don’t know about myself. I just want to say thank you, you are not just a room but you’re a world to me who protected me as my parents did.