a room of one's own.

i sit in the darkness of my room while i write this. a warm chrome light lighting whatever part of the room it can.

today, i will write about this writer's room.

( a good writer had once said, "a woman must have money and a room of her own if she is to write fiction". i, who has none of her own, am unable to do so. 

therefore, this is anything but fiction.)

if this room played music, it would play vivaldi's the four seasons concerto no.4, in specifics- l'inverno. in f minor.

the piece goes like this:
growing anticipation
slow excruciating horror

anger

grief

a bellowing scream.

the rapid trills of violin stick to the walls like dead insects.

the walls are tired. they were once painted purple. then a hospital-gown-green. now a roasted nut kind of brown. 

the colors however are always on my right, depending on how i look at it. 

the clock on the wall is stuck again.

i believe it is the fifth wall clock that has stopped working on that wall. perhaps it's a wall-curse.

i am not sure.

the wall to my left is white. it always has been, actually. it is a ritual not to touch the white walls here.

it used to have this huge framed poster that said 'love'. it had a picture of two shabby-looking bears, sleeping against each other. below it, the letters were spread out with smaller illustrations of the two.

now that i think of it, there are a lot of  'love' annotated decor in this house. 

anyhow,

i removed the framed picture two years ago. at the time, i clearly had a strong vendetta against the concept it promoted. or maybe i was just bored of looking at it. the picture had been in the room for the longest time, and it wasn't really a good look for an angsty 15 year old. the picture, i believe was from uk which was carried here. a silly attempt at recreating our home back there.

the wall was blank for a long time. especially because the vigour in redoing the wall faded a few days after removing the bear frame, like it usually does.

a few months ago, i got to purchasing a few cheap postcards online, and stuck them on the wall. in the center, a still from one of my favorite movies. 

henry selick did a good job with the comfortable-horror theme. 

till date, it is a comfort watch.

the train that runs beside the house makes the whole building shake.

the walls are starting to crack.

-

people who come into my room are of two types, 

those that pay no heed to my bookshelf

and those that say, 'oh i've read this' in a tone that unamuses me.

there are a handful of those that pick a book out, read the synopsis at the back, note the name down and keep the book back as they found it.

that, makes me smile because my bookshelf is a prized possession of mine. 

i may not have a lot, but i do have my books. 

i think it's nice how the books people read speaks volumes about them. mine very shamelessly speak of me too.

there are the books that tell the visitors that i am kind, and gentle, and considerate. these books are the kind that tell stories about two kids falling in love two days before they are to die, about a sweet old man and his student, about a man who recalls the story of his best friend, about angels and demons.

these books however are the least merciful of the lot.

it is deceptive how they look.

on the other hand, there are books on there that tell the visitors i am distorted, complex and a woman going mad. they tell stories about decomposition of women, about anomalities of a house in virginia, apprehension of slow insanity as a young girl, a man who likes hurting women, of five sisters who meet an untimely death.

i know, very unnerving. i apologise, but the negativity does not necessarily douse my personality. 

i am a very approachable person in real life.

the bookshelf also holds the following:

• a candle gifted by a girl my age, who is now a woman of 25.
• a cardboard box holding a lipstick (i don't wear lipstick) :)
  
• a pink crystal ball and a crystal shard from my wiccan days
• a plastic pony i hold dear to my heart
• a perfume bottle never used, now almost finished.

my eye catches a fat pink book.

i have not opened it in a long time.

i believe, some books are better off in shelves.

-

it is periodical, my organization skills.

you may catch me being particularly organized a few days of the month. best to visit the room then.

i sigh looking at the top of the shelf. it is messy. an ugly elephant looks down at me and i make a reminder to not tell people i like elephants. 

i stand up on the chair to see what hides there.

what i see:

• a series of collectible pandas from my childhood. fun fact, i used to be a gems' panda fanatic in those days. any panda fanatic, actually.
• a wooden jenga box. the jenga box was a gift none of us asked for. it was an unnecessary gift, and now another object hard to dispose of.
• poster pains. acrylic paints. other pains. and paint brushes. i get pissed noticing the ones rhea has ruined.
• a box. i smile. i like boxes.

it is nice. the disorganization. i think that is what makes the table more me. an occasional tidying up.

a pink sticky note on my left makes me pause.

it says you'll float. someone once wrote that on my hand with a pink pen. i have it put down on the 'things i may or may not get tattooed if i ever get tattooed ps ask ma for revision' list.

there is another sticky note with the categories of human memory scribbled on it.

below that there is the undergraduate programme brochure for the university i want to go to.

something tells me i need a plan b. things i put blind faith in rarely work out.

i shake those thoughts off. we will think of that when we cross that bridge. (avoidance)

the wooden wall of the table has postcards stuck to it. these are the postcards bought from paris when we had visited. sounds very once-upon-a-time now. i don't remember much of it. the one facing me is the le chat noir card. le chat noir actually refers to a cabaret, a troop of entertainers, and an arts journal, all created by rodolphe salis, a french artist. the poster is an ad for the entertainers, who also performed outside of the paris cabaret and specialized in unique pieces of shadow theater inspired by the chinese shadow puppet shows.

it is also the cover of a tiny music box we purchased with it.

the music it plays is one of the most alluring piece i have ever heard.

unfortunately, i could not find the name of the piece anywhere, and after having scoured the internet, i ultimately contented myself with the music box's rusty playing.

perhaps some tuned are confined to the box.

-

a crocheted duck looks at me in disappointment. he knows i am to study. i tell him, i will.

i have very delightfully named him jimothy swaggerman. 

the second son in the swaggerman family

after toby swaggerman aptly named by his mother.

my smile fades as i remember his origin. 

it was a gift from a boy who thought i was someone very different. 

i pity boys and their ideas of women. such inflated expectations. as if women owe them something irreplenishable. such entitled creatures deserve nothing.

i don't like belittling jimothy to his origin. 

i take off his hat and kiss his bald head.

people are what they are in the moment. not the things that have happened to them.

and at that moment, jimothy was simply a duck with his hat and his purse, an absolutely distinguished fellow.

-

the sound of the closet banging startles me. it is only mita didi. her hair is oiled and slicked back into a bun. hah, i think, this is what white girls would call being a 'clean girl'. the bangles on her hand jangle against each other. i wonder how long she's been with us. i wonder how she's not aged a day. i wonder if time and familiarity blinds me. i wonder how the day will be, when she will no longer bang the closet door, and get affectionately annoyed when i ask her to make me noodles. 

hmm.

she does not close the door properly, i get up to close the closet, and the snow white decal on the inside of it softens the moment. 

as a young girl, i always wanted to be snow white. i think that is where my affinity towards chopped hair grew from.

before the decal used to be the front of a white closet.

the closet was trashed for this big brown one.

so i peeled it off and placed it on the inside.

i don't know if i had my reasons to do so.

-

it is late, and i have finally finished studying.

i put my orbeez hand cramp relieving dolphin in a drawer. 

i notice a purple diary in the drawer, among other knick knacks (old glasses, lace gloves, a rusty geometry box of all the geometry boxes bought)

i take it out and start reading. 

dear elizabeth leigh- 

i start laughing. i remember elizabeth leigh. as a newly turned adolescent, i did not have many friends. elizabeth leigh was a figment of my imagination i would write to. sometimes even be.

oh well.

Today was overwhelming. It was alright, I guess. I might have overreacted. Now, Hindi exam went okay. Not too bad.

it went bad.

Except spelling.

spelling was horrendous. the hindi teacher had a different font of hatred for me.

I must admit, I am a terrible Hindi speller. I was happy seeing Didun fine. That particular dream really got me going. In the evening I practised gaan.  It was okay. I really want to STOP PROCRASTINATING AND WASTING TIME.

me too bro. me too.

Like a big daft fellow, I wasted time and chatted uselessly. This time, he basically confessed love. By god was it cheesy. Don't worry, he wasn't the only idiot , I was too. 

i physically cringe. but then again, someone very dear to me told me, to not harbor dislike for people we were in the past. it is because they went through the horror, that we are the people we are today.

I am such a brainless numbskull who does not know any good. You guessed it. I repeated the words to make him feel content. Wtf. Whatever. Set your priorities straight, Heeya. I feel bad now. Focusing on studies for now.

i take a deep breath. i turn the page.

He keeps on saying it ! I feel so uncomfortable. Is it bad that I can't say it back ? I'm so not ready for this. I don't want it. At all. I have so many other things I want to do. I don't want a relationship now. Not ever. It adds to my pile of problems.

i shake my head and chuckle. right right, yes continue.

No, I don't DON'T love him. You know why I like(d) S ? Because he was more a friend to me than a crush. I loved the competition. I don't want what he's saying to me. I don't need anything more than friends. I don't care if that's weird. I'll do what I need to do. I really need friends rn.

i make an exasperated sound. you know, the one that comes from taking in air from your mouth but your teeth are shut ? try it.

little girls stumbling through life is a little funny.

my sister is now at the age where she too is stumbling. it's a lot like crossing a river on rocks.

sometimes a little too fast.

i scribble at the end

thanks for having my back, elizabeth leigh

-

i am tired. i need sleep. lots of it. 

the bed is empty save a hugo boss box where i am to sleep.

i was supposed to put it in the beside table compartment, but it would take effort to take the other books out to fit it in. so i had left it for later. 

i sit down on the yellow duvet comfortably. the colour yellow is a generational gift from ma. 

the box holds a number of memories, and i slowly take it apart.

to close the lid of the box, obviously. it is difficult to put in otherwise.

i take out the skin of a baby teddy bear first. it is the remains of the anger a daughter bears mixed with the aftermath of watching the jeffrey dahmer documentary. media representation should be uglier, and serial killers should be dissected (their personalities) and prosecuted. not glorified. 

i apologise to the baby and trash it.

there are a few memorable books stored in the box, too big to be there. it has ruskin bond's 'short and sweet stories'. it is a compilation of a few of his best works . there's one story that comes to mind. it is about a man on his way to a party he didn't really want to go to, and meeting a woman on the way. he gives his scarf to the woman. i take out the book.

underneath there's a.a milne's  'now we are six '. the first page has maa's writing "To Dearest Heeya, on your Six-th Birthday, Love from Maa" it was a book that was very special to me. and also fostered my fascination for rubber-balls. i take out this book too.

below it is a book about the human body.

i take that out too.

now that the big things are out, i take a look at the smaller things.

• a number of kinder joy toys (from cinderella, to the fairy pair, to a stout red panda)
• a jaguar figurine the only thing left from the bag of animals gifted by a sweet old man who is now long gone. 
• a red bracelet, taken and kept with love. :)
• an orange clay ball now solidified. if anyone asked my my favourite colours, it would not longer be black and grey and all the morbidity of the world. it would be yellow. and orange. and a little of red too. and maybe a little pink, from my girlhood.
• a dried flower. received with love, and immortalized. i think death refused to steal its soul from me. i can be intimidating. at times.
• a wooden stick sword, to fight all that is bent upon to hurt me
• a green button. which to my displeasure lost its greenness. did not retain the greenness even after many attempts of colouring it with a green colour pencil.
• a birthday note from a woman with kind eyes and a kinder heart.
• a sad letter never sent. 
• a new years' card from a little boy

hmm?
hmm.

i take the effort this time, to put it inside.

i get under the covers.

the yellow light on my table is on.

and the colours of sleep paint the walls one last time.

-

आओगे जब तुम ओ साजना 

अंगना फूल खिलेंगे 

बरसेगा सावन बरसेगा सावन 

झूम झूमके 

दो दिल ऐसे मिलेंगे

-

                                            young woman with parrot - tschaggeny frederic

                                           "i have held you for long. go now. find your home."