Posted on: Apr 14, '08
My Room
I am lying down on my stomach supported by a rather thinning pillow with my laptop in front and a cup of black tea standing on a black note book. The noon outside is hot and silent. All is peace and harmony in this house at this moment. This used to be Chiku’s room when he was here. In fact even now when he comes down for a visit, it becomes his room again. There is something of his personality left here which makes me feel an usurper still. The smoke smell from the pillows and the bed cover and the walls are gone. It may be our personal computer sitting idle and mute in the desk in front of my bed that is yelling his presence. The unoccupied chair is infrequently dusted. You should have seen the perfectly parallel stripes of dust on the internet mechanic’s black trousers fitting his rather ample butt. It was hilarious.
Anyway, the computer is not working now. The poor machine perhaps have given up breathing after losing that boy who used to play games and plan adventure bike trips and projects of building electronic gadgets and moon in general with an overflowing ash tray on his side. Who would now sit on the uncomfortable plastic chair for hours and often look like in the process of getting sucked in by the monitor in to some fairy land of his own where games and gadgets rule.
The drawers of the tables still spew his endless collection of CD, a pack of unused new pens, a few empty packs of cigarettes (kept why exactly?), a red ball made of some unknown polymer which when thrown on ground lights up, a bunch of pencils still sharpened (memory from the days spent on preparing for CAT which by the way I am giving away to masi for her kids), bunches of wires, cables, headphones and related paraphernalia. The drawers of the computer desk are still forlornly empty. The upper one holds a pot of ink waiting for his sporadic hobby of trying to recapture the magic of writing with fountain pens and a lone CD of Ravindra Rachanabali which has refused to get installed in my work laptop. The bottom drawer has a stick of glue and a camel cigarette pack bursting to seams holding coins collected as change from innumerable procurements of cigarettes.
The cupboard still holds books and CD (yes again here too, apart from a suitcase full of them under the living room bed and albums of them on the living room sofa) and the old digital camera and the older yet still camera and a group photo taken at Wipro, exactly as he arranged. The table proudly displays the paperweight from Harley Davidson and the photograph of a submarine brought back from a trip of Vizag which was a souvenir gift in turn for me, mom and the girl friend.
The room would never be mine. It is as if I am holding it for its rightful owner. In spite of the can of ocean scented Odonil room freshener, the Nike Women deodorant ( a recent acquisition), the bottle of Dior Addict (a perfume I would cherish forever as a gift from the room owner though it is really a little too aggressive for a goody-two-shoes like me. well, I am goody goody most of the times though less and less ), a bunch of books - some fiction and some work related, there is very less of me in here. But then I guess I miss my brother that much less in here. and to think we would leave this house for another some time sooner than later. If I ever write a memoir, perhaps I could fill quite a few chapters only with my brother’s rooms. I find his way of nesting amazing.
Tags: brother, home, my room, family
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