A Room
In one corner of this land, I've built a room; that smells interchangeably of coconut oil and white shampoo, of my sweaty palms and feet and of yardley powder packed in lavender coloured tins long lost.
My room feels like ummumma's soft white muslin shawl, and her corner near the kitchen, the dark brown cot, a table fan, a trunk petti, shelves of unused glassware and a red carpet hanging from a steel rod near the ceiling, like a curtain never seen.
It smells of the red sandstone walls towering over my head in beautiful patterns, intermittent with white marble, in the masjid whose name is love.
Of my creaky bed pulled close to the window, half of its body under the shelf on the sidewall, cramming under which numerous Dilli winters passed by; the pictures on the wall, the balcony that had turned a shade of dark brown, painted with dust and the occasional cat that lived inside my suitcase.
It tastes of the rooms that changed cities, in desperate attempts to seize all of love there was; the stories that were written inside and carried along from one land to another by the sails of the heart.
My room closes an eye and sees of what is not seen; in dingy alleys that sprout out like haywire and windows in the air that open up to unknown neighbours who smile.
It hears the constant murmur of the rickshaws talking on the main road in the city that is too far away from touch, and the sound of the distant train at dawn.
In one corner of this land, I've built a room; Maybe I'll hope to call it my own, someday. But I'll leave it an unowned room for now. A room in a corner, that smells interchangeably of coconut oil and white shampoo, of my sweaty palms and feet. Unowned.
My room feels like ummumma's soft white muslin shawl, and her corner near the kitchen, the dark brown cot, a table fan, a trunk petti, shelves of unused glassware and a red carpet hanging from a steel rod near the ceiling, like a curtain never seen.
It smells of the red sandstone walls towering over my head in beautiful patterns, intermittent with white marble, in the masjid whose name is love.
Of my creaky bed pulled close to the window, half of its body under the shelf on the sidewall, cramming under which numerous Dilli winters passed by; the pictures on the wall, the balcony that had turned a shade of dark brown, painted with dust and the occasional cat that lived inside my suitcase.
It tastes of the rooms that changed cities, in desperate attempts to seize all of love there was; the stories that were written inside and carried along from one land to another by the sails of the heart.
My room closes an eye and sees of what is not seen; in dingy alleys that sprout out like haywire and windows in the air that open up to unknown neighbours who smile.
It hears the constant murmur of the rickshaws talking on the main road in the city that is too far away from touch, and the sound of the distant train at dawn.
In one corner of this land, I've built a room; Maybe I'll hope to call it my own, someday. But I'll leave it an unowned room for now. A room in a corner, that smells interchangeably of coconut oil and white shampoo, of my sweaty palms and feet. Unowned.
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