A letter to...

I had this idea a couple of days back, as I came to my room. I wondered how many more times I'd visit; and the number seemed too less, far under a dozen, possibly even under half a dozen. I was filled with sadness at the prospect of having to move out, and have a stranger live in what had come to mean so much to me. So I decided to write this, although I admit it's extremely cliched and not exactly my style. But what's life without the whimsical? Here goes.

A letter to the future occupant of my room

I don't know who you are. I possibly never will. But we have one thing in common. This room that I spent two years in. The place I was more than happy to call home. The place that was so very sacred to me. I write this, more for my own closure than anything, knowing you'll probably never read this. But like I said, in some weird way, I feel connected to you. So let me give you the history.

A couple of years back, on a rainy day in July, I was handed a key to a room. I looked at the numbers on the keychain, weirdly feeling that they would somehow define my immediate future. I took the lift with a ton of luggage, and the doors parted to reveal a slightly under-lit corridor. Identical rooms lined either side of it; and I walked on, reading the numbers, wondering which of them would turn out be mine. The key turned in the lock, and I took my first look at the room I would come to love.

I'll be honest here. The floor was covered in layers upon layers of dust. I often wonder about the history of a place. About all the previous inhabitants who leave their imprints, which are almost invisible, but always there. But this room looked untouched, as if I were the first person to be there. It definitely had a previous occupant--either the person was careful not to leave any sign of existence behind or the cleaning staff had obliterated all traces of it.

I cleaned the room as best as I could and then unpacked. The first thing I did was to pull back the curtains and open the windows. Fresh air and light are the best decorations you can bestow upon a room. On that first day, I felt really alone. I didn't know a single person. And the room felt tiny and claustrophobic. I also caught a nasty cold because of the dust around. The next morning, I woke up to a raging fever. I ran away home, much to the surprise of my parents, who had left me just one day before.

They welcomed me home regardless of that; fed me and nurtured me without any questions. A couple of days later, I was back to my room, still homesick, but determined to see it through. I heard someone in the corridor and opened my door with a mixture of trepidation and curiosity. A girl was standing in front of the adjacent room, searching furiously for something. I can't find my keys, she says, with an endearing smile. In that moment, I knew she would be an amazing neighbor to have. Let me help you look. It was this way that I found her, the girl next door.

For weeks, I lived as I would if I were staying in some temporary accommodation that was impersonal. But somehow, I really don't know how, the place grew on me. Crept up on me silently and took me unawares. Just like that, it went from impersonal to haven.

Even as I write this, I feel a sense of futility. How do I ever tell you what this felt like? What it meant to come back to this cozy hearth after a long tiring day and lie down, looking at the night sky in awe. What it meant to wake up in the morning and see cloudy gray give way to pale pink and then glorious orange. What it meant to watch the trees shed their leaves, which then swirled around in haphazard spirals, as if they had been taken for a fun ride by the wind. What it meant to watch torrents of rain pour down onto the parched earth, while tiny streams trickled down the glass of my window and fell onto the pane. What it felt like to make a cup of coffee,take it out to the balcony and simply savor all that was around. What it felt like to take a long nap in the afternoon and then wake up, feeling like you'd been given a piece of heaven.

What it meant to go to sleep amidst a hundred problems, yet knowing with a bone deep conviction that you'd be fine. What it meant to open your door to the cheerful conversation of your neighbors. What it meant to hold serenity in both hands and feel that it was yours forever.

How do I ever do justice to all of this, to any of this, when all I have are words? What I have to convey is much stronger than mere words, which crumble powerlessly under the weight of my thoughts. Maybe this will make sense to you, or maybe it will seem like exaggerated rhapsody. But write I must.

And so, I went about living my life. This place gave me my first taste of independence, and boy, did it whet my appetite! It taught me many things, all of which have been invaluable. I now value solitude and company in equal parts, and have learnt to cherish them both. I once was an introvert, and I am now somewhat of an ambivert. I've learnt to live in equanimity; to not let anything affect me beyond a threshold.

There were several times when things weren't right. When I felt as if they would never be. When solitude somehow morphed into loneliness and cast its foreboding shadow upon me. When sorrow clutched at me like a vise that was strangling in its grip.But there were always people around. People who cared enough to tell me that things would be fine. To check on me and ensure that I was holding up okay. And eventually, I would see the proverbial light.

Many things changed during these years, my friend. You see that door to your left? Well, that wasn't there before. There was a wall slightly near it, and it was broken down to build that. I was a little sad, because many people I knew were shifting rooms consequently. Some of my neighbors changed, and I lost the balcony that I so loved to stand at. But as is the way of life, I soon grew accustomed to these very changes I detested.

Two years flew by like two minutes. Close to new year, I practically moved out. I came back in a few days, and everything seemed so different. Two of my immediate neighbors had moved out, and the locked rooms seemed so sad and desolate. Remember the girl next door I mentioned? She was "friend of all the world" and her room would constantly have visitors who laughed and talked nineteen to the dozen all day and all night. But I never did mind, for she was the epitome of cheer, optimism and goodwill. Seeing her room locked did something to me. I already felt like I was a stranger.

Yet, I clung on, not wanting to let go before it was time. The next time I came, there was someone new in the room opposite. I said hi and welcomed her, but the feeling of being a stranger increased all the more. Then, last week, I came back to find an old friend in that adjacent room. Better this than the overpowering silence, I smiled to myself.

As I stand here at my window today, I see a million memories that are associated with this place. Tiny shimmering pieces of my life that I'll always treasure. I feel reluctant to leave, but I know I have to. It's about time.

I wonder what you'll find when you turn the key in the lock and open the door, my friend. I wonder if that crazy "wall of wisdom"--one entire section of the wall, covered with tiny pieces of paper, bearing some of my favorite quotes--will survive the wrath of cleaning. I wonder if you'll read them and smile, thinking the previous occupant must have been damn eccentric. I wonder if you'll feel the same connection that I did with this room. If you'll feel as if kindred spirits are watching over you.

I don't know you at all, but I wish for you this. That my room is for you all that it was for me. May you find peace, happiness and courage here. May it become your new home:)