The Room

         Seethamma's room, a tiny alcove in her son's house, felt like a world of its own. The faded yellow walls whispered stories of years gone by, their once vibrant hue now muted with age. The old wooden window frames creaked as if they were sharing the weight of her solitude. Thin rays of sunlight timidly filtered through, casting a melancholic glow on the weathered floor. A solitary cot, draped in a frayed cotton sheet, dominated the room's center. Its springs complained with every shift of her fragile frame, a constant companion in her moments of restlessness. An old wooden trunk, stained with time and memories, sat against the wall, holding remnants of her past - tattered photographs and yellowed letters.

        Amma's old self, a portrait of resilience etched with the passage of time, bore witness to the hardships life had bestowed upon her. Her once-black hair had turned to silver, cascading like a waterfall down her hunched shoulders. Wrinkles adorned her face like delicate etchings on ancient parchment, each line telling a tale of laughter, tears, and unfulfilled dreams. Her hands, once strong and capable, now trembled with the weight of the years. In her youth, she had tasted the bitter lovelessness in relationships. An arranged marriage had bound her to a stranger, her husband chosen by her family for practical reasons rather than affection. The flame of passion never kindled, and their relationship was an empty canvas. Her dreams of love and companionship were swallowed by the demands of married life, leaving her heart barren and her spirit tethered.

As old age embraced her, Amma found herself alone, abandoned by her many offspring, the very ones she had sacrificed so much for. She longed for their affection, for a sense of belonging in their bustling lives. Yet, they were distant stars in a vast sky, shining in their own orbits, indifferent to her presence. She tried to understand their reasons, but her heart still ached with the weight of their absence. Her days became a cycle of solitude, broken only by fleeting interactions with her son's family. She yearned for warmth, for a tender touch, but the only companionship she found was in the memories of days long gone. Her room became both her sanctuary and her prison, a cocoon where she sought refuge from a world that had forgotten her. Amidst the solitude, she found comfort in the echoes of her past, in the moments of joy she had once known.

         On a rickety side table, a vase once filled with fresh flowers now stood empty, like her heart. A cracked mirror adorned the wall, reflecting the lines etched on her face, each marking a story she had lived. The mirror was surrounded by pictures of her children- the smiling faces of those who had left her behind, now fading into oblivion. The room's shelves held a modest collection of books, a testament to her unfulfilled desire for education. Dust had settled on their spines, a poignant reminder of the dreams she once held. A small statue of Lord Krishna stood on one corner, adorned with a garland of jasmine flowers that had long lost their fragrance.

         The air was thick with silence, broken only by the occasional ticking of an old clock that hung above her cot. The hours seemed to pass like eternity, each tick a reminder of the seconds slipping away. Amma's eyes wandered across the room, taking in every detail with a mix of resignation and nostalgia. This room, her sanctuary, had become her prison, a place where she awaited the embrace of death. Outside, the world continued to spin, unaware of the woman lost within the confines of her room. Laughter and chatter filled the house, but the sounds felt distant, like echoes from another realm. Amma's room, a microcosm of her life, spoke volumes about the woman who had lived within its walls. Her struggles, her sacrifices, her dreams, all encapsulated in this tiny space. As she lay there, waiting for death, the room seemed to envelop her, the physical manifestation of her forsaken existence. In her final moments, she clung to the room like an anchor, finding solace in the familiar surroundings that had witnessed the ebb and flow of her life. The room had become her world, and as her breaths grew faint, she surrendered to its embrace, knowing that within its confines, her journey would find its end.

Ms. Renjitha. K. R, Assistant Professor of English, Al Shifa College of Arts and Science, Kizhattoor, Perinthalmanna