The Room...

There was dust all around. Spirals of dirt and strands of human hair seemed to spin like a top in the corners of the room. Dying rays from the western horizon added a tinge of red to the dampness around. The books, papers, pens, the red foldable table lamp and Vivekananda-on-a-postcard could be seen arranged around the bed. The bed had a maroon cover, complete with hand woven designs in the color of gold. Powdered with the spoils of time, it seemed holding on to secrets of the bygone. Smells and tastes- spills and splashes of many a moment gone by…
The mirror had lost its reflective shine; in places the mercury had peeled off and the bare glass created unruly patterns around the edges. Its prismatic effect broke down the weak rays of the sun and a careful observation would reveal the vibgyor- the rainbow colors peeping around its perimeters! Ironic- since time seemed to have lost its track within the four walls of this room! Collage and scribbles, now yellowed in time, hung on the walls.
“I am nobody! Who are you? Are you a nobody too? We can be nobodies together!”
“I try a lot, though, to color my joy and pain… but alas! In time only black and white do shades remain…”
Lyrics of western music, hard hitting words… rested on paper- unmindful of the waves of time and purposelessness. The shades of ink- black, red, blue… all seemed to look alike! Don’t we all look the same with age? In time, aren’t the yardsticks and differences nullified? And then the great equalizer of death!
The fan hanging, though brown, had been used to create a trapeze of cob webs. The white fluorescent tube, the electric bulb and the little black switches arranged orderly on the paneled boards seemed to be the only witnesses of the sound-of-silence that had engulfed this space. It takes a careful second glance to notice the pink of the walls- though the dull white ceiling stares back like the face of death. Why do they paint the ceilings white?
The cabinets of hard wood and the single paneled door revolted at the joints. The shrill metallic squeak seemed like a protest of the inanimate- laid to rest in time. The shelves and the drawers all dusty, all empty… all dreary. A slight touch seemed to have a seismic effect as the wooden joints shied away from human contact. In one corner of the cabinet minuscule naphthalene balls were sublimating slowly- leaving behind no trace, save a faint smell of its substance!
Do we leave a trace? Hop-skip and jump- towards the successes of life… towards the fireball of opportunities… towards the unknown geometries of time? The animate-inanimate linkages keep on getting redundant. Dusty. The emotional value also becomes too heavy to subscribe. Like this aged room with the yellows of decay, the past is abandoned.
The birthday cards make me turn the pages to a different era… the tremble of my grandmaa’s hand, as she had blessed her grandson…
The wishes of cousins, love of parents all seem to have been absorbed by the four walls of the room. The air smelt heavy; I tried to open the window but then the stagnating time seemed to have cast an evil spell… or was an effort to shield the evil? The evil of ignorance! The evil of need, greed and business- the evil of the self!
I was selling off this portion of the house. After my parents, there is no one to weave those tales of yester-years with the evening tea, with the setting sun and the noisy crows. There is no one to wipe off the precipitates of time from the objects that had shaped my life- my books, by stationary… by diaries, my letters…
My maa would live her life through these rewinds, returning to the room where her son had grown up. The room where letters germinated into words… sentences and stories. Where impressions of many an emotion would ring in her ears… where there would be an association nurtured… matured… left behind.
I have come back to sell the room. Only a room to me- some unwanted pieces from my past seem to occupy the space I had left behind a long time back. Land of opportunities, green backs and the fames of success! The son who made his parents proud- would say the neighbors!
Would they never smirk too? Would they never see a father and mother carrying the burden of a ‘son’ worthy? Would they never see the room with all its little nothings, like a collage, trying to capture the essence of a son? My room had protected my memories.


They do not seem to like my presence. The layers of dust seem to smear my gabardine. The scribbles on the wall seem to melt in front of my eyes. Strangely familiar covers of books seem to repel my touch. The dry inkpot stares back at me, saying, ‘its over mate’…
My legs give away… nausea suddenly clouds my senses… the dust on my tailored suit matters no more… as I clutch the hand woven bed sheet and the tears trail down. The room I had never looked back to… the people I had left behind… the relations I had forfeited...
As the darkness melts across the skies, I close my eyes… there seems to be a faint aroma of lemon tea- my father used to drink… as I would show him the home work from school after the evening game of football…
I suddenly realize… its going to be a long night, in my return to innocence…