The four walls and the ceiling that house you, accommodate a multitude of memories as well. From where I see it, the door opens to the image of my mother and I warming up into a tight embrace on my weekly visits. It was here on the top of this couch that I couldn’t quit dancing the day the tenth board results came out. A week later, the couch was moved to to make space for an ice slab on which my grandmother was laid after her death. Her features summed up into a faint smile; it was here that I kissed her for the last time before she was taken for her cremation. The right most corner on the kitchen shelf is where I had placed an earthen pot filled with water twelve years ago on our ‘griha pravesh’. It is a ritual where the daughter in the family places a pail of water in a newly bought house wishing for prosperity in the home. The image of the dining table flooded with papers more than cutlery, papers that couldn’t find a space in another location, papers that came out of the cupboard but never found their way back, papers that I would fidget with on mornings when my dad could not find his files for that day’s court hearings. The papers made out into neat stacks and settled in the cupboards before a prominent festival or a lunch or a dinner party. On the right I can hear laughter echoing from our room over the countless jokes that I have shared with my brother, from the nights when we watch our favorite movies, from the time when we imagined ourselves as the protagonists of a dark comedy. In mornings when sunlight would creep over my parents’ room through the window I would marvel at my own reflection in the mirror, the light adding radiance to my skin. In the night comes the vision of the four of us warming ourselves to food spread out over the bed, food made lovelier by our communion. The birthdays and anniversary cakes cut over this bed, the smiles in this room forming a part of so many pictures. On the same bed I had once cried profusely on the death of a character in Balika Vadhu, the image of the groom’s corpse juxtaposed with that of a dazzling fifteen year old child bride waiting for her betrothal to be honored. Though I have never since mourned a mishap on television that intensely again yet I have formed and severed associations with countless characters in this room. The telephone brings memory of the time when I had come to the conclusion that I would grow up to be a telephone operator for my unmatched proficiency in answering calls. Next is the sight of my room keeping pace with the surging number of books, clothes, shoes, keepsakes, photographs and the list goes on. An apt reflection of my indulgences in life. In this room I stand unhappily every weekend before I leave for college again. And then the door shuts to the image of my brother kissing me goodbye.
I have never been the one to invest affection in structures but now that I probe over the thoughts circling in my mind I know that if I were to be ripped off of my home, then it would account to be a sorrowful memory for today’s prompt.