A series of 6 short stories, sleepless explores memories from childhood through the musings of a woman who is coming to terms with growing up and growing old.
It was very dark. I was awake but nothing in particular had woken me up. I hadn’t been startled by a noise from the street, no dogs were barking and I hadn’t woken up from a dream – at least not one that I could remember. I hadn’t slept in an awkward position either. I wasn’t thirsty and surprisingly didn’t need to pee. I was just awake. It felt like my brain had miscalculated and woken up before time.
I must have been between two REM cycles. I didn’t feel groggy or sleepy. I wasn’t disoriented. I looked at the neon green light of my bedside clock – 3.00 am again.
As I waited for my eyes to adjust to the darkness I realized that the street lights were not on tonight. There was literally no ambient light and definitely no moon around. I could hear my husband’s gentle snoring. My daughter was fast asleep in her roll out bed. I contemplated drinking a little water and going to the bathroom since it had become a night time routine. But instead, I decided to walk around the house.
I left the bedroom as silently as I could and made my way through the den to the drawing room. I could walk blindfolded in this house and not bump into anything. I knew every corner and every turn with the precision of an architect. I loved my house; our house. It had been a dream for seven long years; ideas, thoughts and inspirations lying in multiple Pinterest Boards.
When I got married, my husband and I moved into the single (but large) room and bathroom on the terrace of his parents’ house. It was beautifully designed by his mother, resplendent with a red cement floor, terracotta tiled roof and exposed brick walls. We had the terrace to ourselves, lush with a variety of potted plants. It was the perfect Airbnb. Aside from an old but well-kept chest of drawers (one which we still use), it had been left bare so that we could do it up ourselves, the way we wanted to. Over the years, this single (but large) room underwent many transformations. The brick walls were painted white, to let in more light. New furniture was added slowly. We graduated from a double mattress on the floor to a white metal bed. Every small addition, every little change sparked joy. A few years later the Delhi MCD had given residences permission to build a third floor. This was the push we needed to start planning and saving. The permissions and paper work took 5 years. In middle of it all, our daughter was born and we decided wait till she was two years old to begin building our floor. Our old Pinterest boards were dug up and this time we were making concrete plans. Friends and family chipped in and added to our savings. A contractor was found and CAD drawings were finalized. What began as a 4 month project lasted for 8 harrowing months.
Our contractor was never around. Workers changed daily. The walls were crooked, nooks appeared where they shouldn’t and multiple tiles were broken. The plumbing was a nightmare and the metal windows were hastily painted without coat of primer. By the end of it we were exhausted. We wanted everyone out of the house. On 31st December, the last worker left, we closed the door and soaked in the silence.
Our house wasn’t built perfectly. On close inspection, you would find flaws in every room. We had had to make many adjustments and changes to our original plans. But in spite of it all, we designed a space which had our personality deeply embedded in it. It was a house built with love and it showed.
A faint light from a neighbours terrace cast soft shadows in the drawing room. It was unkempt but warm and inviting. Our cats had messed up the carpet again. The two poufs lay oddly scattered and a cushion had fallen on the floor. The sofa cushions had dents in them – exactly where our arms had rested a few hours ago – just like the dents left on pillows if you don’t fluff them up after getting out of bed. I picked up the pillow and stroked my two cats sleeping peacefully, all four legs intertwined in a mix of black, grey, orange and white. They purred softly, acknowledging me, but were too sleepy to wonder why I was awake at this hour. I resisted the urge to clean up the room. It could wait till morning.
There was a gentle breeze outside. I stepped into the veranda and decided to sit for a while. The money plant was growing well. Its delicate vines had climbed up to our tiled terracotta roof – bright greens against deep rust. Another few months and it would cover the entire ceiling. I had spent a lot of time gently guiding the vines through the black metal rods. It was beginning to look very pretty. I am not usually successful with house plants and leave the watering and pruning to our gardener. But I was proud of what I had achieved with this one and hadn’t let anyone touch it.
I sat quietly, letting my mind drift, not thinking of anything in particular. I became aware of my breath – it was gentle and rhythmic. I neither meditate, nor practice yoga (both of which I should start at some point) so I was not in the habit of being aware of my breathing. The only other time I could remember listening to my breathing was when we played Dark Room – a vile and vicious game designed to intimidate – a milder version of Lord of the Flies.
Dark Room is played just like Hide & Seek, but in a single room with the lights out. Usually the youngest or most mild mannered kid – the type that could be bullied – would be sent out of the room and asked to count till 100. In that time frame, the others in the room had to find a space to hide. The catch in the game was, if you managed to slap the kid at the back before he or she found you – they would have to go back outside and the game would begin again.
It was a game designed for big kids to bully little kids.
The process of making the room dark was taken very seriously. Windows were covered with thick bed sheets and doorways were lined with newspaper or stuffed with door mats. When everyone was satisfied, the kid chosen to be the den, was sent out of the room and the game would begin.
I would find places to hide that were always a little too small for me. As I adjusted my body and settled into a position I could stay still in – I would notice my breathing. In a quiet room, the sound of my breath would amplify and after a while it was all I could hear. Sometimes I thought my heavy breathing was the reason I got caught early in the game. But the truth is that I preferred being caught early. I didn’t like playing Dark Room.
The minute the light was switched off, the energy in the room changed – and not in a good way. Friendships, alliances and enemies were laid bare as everyone scrambled to find a hiding place. Authority was established. Rules were set by a dictator and democracy of play was thrown out of the window. The dark brought out the worst in us. We became mean, fighting hard to establish our place in the room – who is the boss and who is the watchman, who controls and who consents, who decides the fate of the rest of us.
As I grew older, the rules became more complex. In a particular incident, we were playing with cousins (the kind that are third and fourth removed and you don’t really know how you are related to them) in a house which I was not familiar with. It was an old Calcutta house, each room larger than two or three drawing rooms combined of modern builder homes. I had tucked myself comfortably between a chair and a wall, again a place where I could be found easily, when one of the cousins, a young, tall and lanky boy with deep black eyes came and tucked himself right next to me. I had met him a few times and did not know him well. He was older than me.
I was conscious of his body and his breathing. I knew he was staring at me and pretended to not notice because the room was dark. It was afternoon, so we couldn’t manage to completely eliminate all sources of light. I was meant to feel safe but I didn’t. My palms were sweaty and my breathing shallow. I had not been taught good touch / bad touch. I did not understand how to draw safe boundaries around me. I did not know how to react or what to do when I felt unsafe. But my instincts told me that this was not right. He was too close, his right hand awkwardly placed over my shoulder, his legs spread more than they needed to be. I had to get out. Just as the den counted to 98 and everyone else had settled into their places, I announced that I needed to go to the bathroom. There were groans of annoyance, but they let me go. It was the first time I felt dirty and violated. Nothing had happened so I didn’t know if I should say anything to anyone. My younger brother came out to ask me if I was alright. I nodded firmly. I was out of the room and so it was over. I was fine.
I refused to play after that and have not played Dark Room ever since.
This memory makes me uncomfortable. Thinking about it makes me feel dirty all over again. I wish I could it delete forever. And if deleting it is not an option then I would prefer that it remains buried in the deep recesses of my subconscious. Yet, here it is; surfacing out of nowhere while I admire my house plants in the middle of the night.
My body shudders involuntarily. I decide to go back to bed, back to my daughter and back to the present – which is safe. In this house, I am safe.