I once asked for a room of my own.
Several months and appeals later, I got one.
But with no windows.
As a person fond of windows, I found this deplorable.
Confined to the four walls of the room with a shelf full of books and a painting of a mountain on the wall, I began to make conversations with words on blank sheets and stories inside books with slightly torn pages.
I fell in love with words and together, we realized that we had stories to tell and hearts to win.
It was in this little room I grew familiar with Elizabeth Bennet and her love for Darcy.
Here, I discovered Shelley and her Frankenstein and grew weary of the mysterious things the world held in itself.
The adventures were many, but I was a lover of windows and longed for a room with one.
And when I got one, I rejoiced!
I was no longer a prisoner of my thoughts and imagination.
Now, I had visitors in the form of pigeons and neighbours who took long morning walks.
I began noticing the tasks of the watchmen in the night, and slowly fell into the regular pattern of life.
I grew weary again, and this time, it wasn't short lived.
I wondered if this was what life was all about? Mornings and nights, noons and evenings withheld probably nothing that the stories I read offered.
Horrified with the banal reality of life, I wanted to run back to the room with no windows.
Where I went fishing with Tom Sawyer and pictured the view of River Thames in the words of Pip.
It was here that I wrote alongside Ruskin Bond and the likes because they were my only windows to the world I desperately wanted to belong.
But like words, there was a lot in life, that once said and done, had no going back.
