I have a memory of summers, a summer and a memory, which are one of my happier ones. I remember walking back home, perhaps from tuition classes or German or one of the many random nothings that filled up my teenage and early years. The street lights are glowing, the evening is starting to cool down and the dust has settled for today. I can hear the hum of evening rituals, voices and television and bikes and shouts and clinking of utensils.
The fan in my room is on its highest speed, it is ready to launch into space, the electricity is working and will be (at least for a few hours at least) and the air conditioner is on and spewing out icy air. We are sitting on the double box bed, which is too large for the room. Little blocks of space spill out accidentally on three sides of this large boxy piece of well-shaped wood. Somehow, I am not entirely sure how, we have also fit a cabinet with an old TV on top of it and a study table in this room, a traveling-hoarding family miracle. You cannot walk a step without bumping into anything (still true, a decade later). The miscellany of our house lives here - the spare shopping bags, bed sheets and pillow cases, and used gift wrapping paper saved carefully and presents (that were for us and are now for others, so the circle and recycle of life goes forward). Once upon a time hardbound copies of India Today magazines lived in the loft as did all the games we played (Hungry Hippos, Scotland Yard, Monopoly and several poker sets). The bed is unyielding and giant but its' storage is unparalleled. And we are a household of hoarders. I have seen some of us retrieve things thrown into the bin and carefully putting them back where they never belonged in the first place.
There is an entire drawer full of socks, some at their spidery threadbare end, others lush in their newness. An ugly boudoir/dressing table, a mild brown piece of furniture with nothing else in its palette, stands at one end, almost blocking a cupboard door (did I forget to mention the built-in cupboards). Don't open it, I am telling you, it is a bad idea. The moth-like balls of whatnot should be enough to deter you. But of course you open it. Old creams, jewelry so unkind it never did anyone's face a favor, the last drops of so many perfumes, combs and lumps of hair, a drying lip gloss. Some hair. Always. Just shut the door and keep moving.
The windows have mesh and glass and the wooden edges are painted an ugly white, that serves as the perfect background to highlight the swirls of dust. And you need to know, there is a lot of dust. No matter how tightly you shut the window, you will hear the soundtrack of colony life. It is almost impossible to imitate, it is so grounded in its surroundings. The sounds are born and die in their hometown, they never travel except in the unkind and unforgetting memories like mine.
This was just one room.
The fan in my room is on its highest speed, it is ready to launch into space, the electricity is working and will be (at least for a few hours at least) and the air conditioner is on and spewing out icy air. We are sitting on the double box bed, which is too large for the room. Little blocks of space spill out accidentally on three sides of this large boxy piece of well-shaped wood. Somehow, I am not entirely sure how, we have also fit a cabinet with an old TV on top of it and a study table in this room, a traveling-hoarding family miracle. You cannot walk a step without bumping into anything (still true, a decade later). The miscellany of our house lives here - the spare shopping bags, bed sheets and pillow cases, and used gift wrapping paper saved carefully and presents (that were for us and are now for others, so the circle and recycle of life goes forward). Once upon a time hardbound copies of India Today magazines lived in the loft as did all the games we played (Hungry Hippos, Scotland Yard, Monopoly and several poker sets). The bed is unyielding and giant but its' storage is unparalleled. And we are a household of hoarders. I have seen some of us retrieve things thrown into the bin and carefully putting them back where they never belonged in the first place.
There is an entire drawer full of socks, some at their spidery threadbare end, others lush in their newness. An ugly boudoir/dressing table, a mild brown piece of furniture with nothing else in its palette, stands at one end, almost blocking a cupboard door (did I forget to mention the built-in cupboards). Don't open it, I am telling you, it is a bad idea. The moth-like balls of whatnot should be enough to deter you. But of course you open it. Old creams, jewelry so unkind it never did anyone's face a favor, the last drops of so many perfumes, combs and lumps of hair, a drying lip gloss. Some hair. Always. Just shut the door and keep moving.
The windows have mesh and glass and the wooden edges are painted an ugly white, that serves as the perfect background to highlight the swirls of dust. And you need to know, there is a lot of dust. No matter how tightly you shut the window, you will hear the soundtrack of colony life. It is almost impossible to imitate, it is so grounded in its surroundings. The sounds are born and die in their hometown, they never travel except in the unkind and unforgetting memories like mine.
This was just one room.
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