I did nothing interesting yesterday or today, unless you consider getting into a crowded fast local with an overloaded backpack an event to write about. Okay, one can. I won't. So, today I've taken up the task to imagine and describe a room and see where it takes me.
Darkness shrouds the room. It is past sundown. The phosphorescent stars on the ceiling had grown old and glimmered only faintly to showcase the lax attempt to form accurate constellations. Tiny weak beams of orange from the street lights try to battle through the translucent blue curtains guarding the narrow ceiling-to-floor glass windows, creating a glow that was neither orange nor blue but a hue in between. The colour of the walls was indiscernible, indistinguishable among pale white, yellow or a shade of pink.
The clock's ticking grows louder as more light shining off of it reaches me. It is seven o clock. Slowly my eyes adjust to the darkness. I soak in more as I get up off my bed. On the far wall is the almirah, by far the oldest thing in the room, still as sleek as it was a decade ago when I those drawings of cartoons on it. Faded and weird in retrospect, the cheetos stickers on the almirah mirror are peeling off. The rest of the wall is full of framed pictures of me arranged chronologically in a stairway fashion going upward to the right. The pictures are fuzzy, the sort that was common until point and shoot digital cameras became more common. To my left was the balcony with the blue curtains. The small gap in the fixture had begun to make more noise as the wind blew inward. The room was on the second floor. The wind unavoidable. In the right side of the room is a 90s style ornate dressing table mimicking a Victorian era one, but with all the modern functionality, a 5 foot high mirror etched in the corners with flowery designs, and half a dozen drawers and cabinets. This was perfectly in sync with the aura created by the wooden queen sized bed showcasing early Indian school workmanship, that took up nearly half the room.
Right beside me was the most incompatible thing in the room, my study desk. The lamp on it stooped over just as I always eventually do as I work. The stack of books on it rose a mighty 2 feet. Torts, Penal Code, Personal law, Criminology, a lot of subjects were to be read. The clear workspace was an aberration though; my backpack had been neatly placed beside the desk. On the table was a ceramic dish covered by a plate, and a small note. It was my mother's handwriting.
"There's khichidi in the bowl. Finish it. I've gone to get bread."