A room with a view

The thin vinyl door gives way. The floor board under me creaks. I have stepped into my match-box. The first room in the Carmel wing, is a pentagon created with thin vinyl boards. A space of your own is a luxury, if you live in the Loreto Hall. All other rooms have two to four occupants.

I shut the door and put the lock and key on the bookshelf.

The bookshelf juts out against the wall. Suspended like a bridge, it's my sole library. The books look as though each has been fingered regularly.

My sandals go into the shoe-rack under the bookshelf. My bag lands at the top of my wardrobe. It measures up to my chest. The top is lined with cheap plastic sheet with floral prints. At home the furniture might have served no purpose.

My stole is still clinging to the back of my chair. Stark orange, against the thick brown enamel. The table is the same shade. Each coat of enamel conceals the history of an occupant. Books are stacked on the table. History of Ancient India sits atop the pile.

The room closes me in, just three steps in any direction.

The pale yellow wall is like a sheet of consolation.
I open the window, my other consolation. East- that's where the tea garden is! But first, the St.Teresa's play ground. Brown with its fine dust. Convent girls chattering. This is where Mother Teresa lived. Beyond St. Teresa's building sprawls the tea-garden. They run into the valley until they meet the mountains. The mountains meet the horizon abruptly.

My tired back collapses into my bed. A framework strapped with thick cotton bands, the bed has no spine. It envelops me like a cradle. If I toss and turn, its shape assumes my moves. I slight my head to look at my parents' portrait. It sits on the Victorian flowerpot stand, now serving the purpose of a bedside table.

Outside the cubicle walls is the noise of the college girls.
The comfort of my match-box is endearing.