The Room

As I hear the sounds outside, I know another change is coming about. I started off as an empty room in the northeast corner of this house. According to the original plans, I am part of the ‘servant’s quarter.’ I have one window facing east and on the western end of the southern wall is a door which leads into a short hallway heading into the kitchen. My floors are red tiles while the window has fancy wooden grills and translucent glass panes.

The first occupants of the home assigned a maid to this empty space. She had a mattress, covered with an old sheet, laid on the floor and a wooden trunk that had her worldly possessions in it. She did not care much about me. It was as if she knew I was her temporary address and, therefore, did not warrant attention. She would leave early in the morning and return when it was time for bed. I had a lot of quiet time to myself. The window was never opened and I was embarrassed by the musty odor that emanated from me then.

A few months later the maid was gone and a new set of people moved in, to make this house their home. I was the extra room for this family. Dressing me up began by placing an altar in my northeast corner. It was beautifully crafted with polished wood and glass doors. The roof was the shape of a pyramid with wire mesh along two sides, through which the fragrance of the incense – lit each morning and evening – would fill me up. It was as if I had been sanctified. The chants and prayers reverberated within my walls and everyone entering my door bowed their heads in silence. The man of the house read from holy scriptures every evening while the rest of the family sat on my floors and listened in silence. My window was opened each morning, the saffron colored curtains drawn back, to let fresh air and sunlight in. I still remember those sights, sounds and smells after over six decades.

When the baby of the family was born, she was brought in through my door to be blessed by the holy environment that had been created within my walls. For a couple of years life went on and I enjoyed being treated like a special room. Then large tins and jars began taking over my northwest corner. One day a carpenter came in and built shelves high up along all four of my walls. He had a hard time as my walls are made of stone. He spent hours hammering nails and building supports for the heavy wooden planks. The shelves were painted green - and I felt ugly. But what happened next was worse. Suitcases, wooden trunks, large containers began to occupy the shelves, while the floors filled up with unused furniture: an old table, a discarded wicker chair, a broken dressing table. Then came more tins of rice, wheat and other grains. It seems rationing had made it necessary to stock food whenever it was available. My northeast corner remained the same and prayers were still offered to the deity but the sanctity got engulfed in materialistic belongings of little to no value. My walls lacked color, the fragrance of incense was lost in the musty smell of grains while rodents and pests slowly found their way in. The stacked furniture, in front of the window, allowed very little light and air in when it was opened. From a bright, holy room I changed to a dark, dingy store room with an altar in one corner.

The baby was now a child who often hid behind my closed door. She came here when she needed space to process her fears. I witnessed her shed many tears and clean her runny nose with the hem of her dress. She must have felt as neglected as I did and I am glad I was able to give her the shelter away from whatever it was that brought her to me. She would lie down on my cool floor in front of the altar and rock herself to sleep. The man of the house would come in later and gently pick her up into his arms and take her away.

Then, one stormy evening, I saw what brought fear into the young girl’s heart. As the family sat listening to the scriptures there was a loud thunderclap. The older daughter of the family went into an epileptic seizure and the parents hustled to revive her. It was an unnerving experience and I saw the young child go from peaceful to terrified in minutes. Seeing her sister stiffen, then curve like a bow and froth at the mouth, while one parent held on and the other gave CPR, seemed impossible for the child to witness. She backed away and crouched beside the old dressing table with her head between her legs. She trembled and shook, but remained silent. No one noticed her and she refused to look up. The parents successfully revived their daughter from the seizure and carried her out. The little child tentatively looked up, crawled over to the cool floor in front of the altar and lay down till her father came back for her.

As the child grew up she visited me more often. Her sister died and I was witness to the last rites and prayers that were performed in front of the altar. The little child no longer hid in fear. I was glad to see her come in peace and spend time doing things she enjoyed. Behind my shut door, she read or wrote and often brought in her favorite doll to read aloud to. She dressed the doll up and played mother. Playing teacher to imaginary students was another activity I often witnessed. She taught them poetry, song and dance. Most of all, I loved hearing her talk to her reflection in the mirror of the broken dressing table. She would wipe the mirror clean with a rag, sit in the wicker chair and share secrets with her own reflection. That is where I first learned about her special friend. She was in love and felt safe and secure with him. She had intimate conversations with his imaginary reflection. As she got more involved with him her visits to me became more sporadic. I was happy for her, for now she had someone else to share her secrets and feelings with.

She married her friend and the two lived in this home, with her family, for the next few years. I was not surprised to hear plans of converting me into their bedroom. She had a soft corner for me, her safe place for years. They removed the altar, cleared the junk, brought down the shelves, painted my walls a beautiful lilac and brought in new furniture. There was now a modern dressing table, a canopy bed and a new armoire. My window had bright, new curtains and a beautiful persian rug adorned my floor. Fresh flowers brought back the fragrances. The two spent intimate moments, had fun conversations, arguments and laughter behind my closed door. It was a very proud moment for them, when they brought in a crib and their first born to share their room.

I was sorry to see them go. I gather they moved out of the country. Since then I have had sporadic visitors but, most of the time, I am left to myself. My walls have lost color, the curtains have faded with regular washes and unused furniture has begun to move in to corners again. I have learnt from conversations overheard in the hallway that the house is to be gutted to make room for, what they refer to, as an apartment complex. I guess my time is done and I must make room for a new generation of homes. I hope I have served my purpose well and have found room in memories of those who have spent time in here. I have a special place for the beautiful altar that sanctified me and a soft corner for the young lady who spent happy and sad times in my space.

The unmistakable sounds of heavy machinery are coming closer. I just heard a shout, “ALL CLEAR!”