The no-private room

GENRE: Scenes from a writer’s life



I like my room as much as one loves his own bedroom.

The room is really vast, enclosing about 400 square feet at its base. The entrance door is at north side, through which about a hundred people go in and out everyday, the same door opening to the road. Just opposite to this door, at the other side of the room, there resides the back door which opens to a narrow corridor. The corridor opens to a narrower lane which in turn opens to the local bazaar - the market place.

Just beside the back door, there are the stairs, which go straight to first floor. Eleven steps, and counting the last, twelve and in front of it is the room of my landlady living with her two children. All the three speak a lot… much are rubbish, a few boring and the rest concerning me. The landlady herself, a fat and dark woman and though very talkative, is a very cunning species. I took this room just six months ago and within these months, she has hiked the rent twice. I have decided after the last case, whenever after this she comes to talk anything about the rent, I will give her a hint of leaving this room.

My bed is at the eastside, just beside the window – the only window, the medium through which I can talk to the passers-bye, can smell all the things around the house, starting from the Chhatim flowers, the Jasmine flowers of my neighbour-the Punjabi family, to the rotten smell of vegetables from the market. And through the same window I can see the whole sky at a glance with its all glistening stars at night.

Under my bed, lies my trunk. It’s the same trunk that I carried to my hostel, in my childhood. And though in its old age, it still shows my registration number of the school hostel on it. Except these, I have some books with me- some of my college life-literature works, some are fiction stories, a few of Ruskin Bond- the same books which I was carrying since my childhood. These, and a colourful flower-vase which I have bought at a local fare a few days ago, remained without flowers – as a bachelor.

Two middle sized cabinets stand beside my bed, as two ghosts. I use one of them, and the other one stays locked. Still, I have tried to find out what resides inside it, but unfortunately have failed every time. Besides these, a dining table is at a corner of the room, which is of no use now, and a chair, on which sometimes I try to sit, knowing fully that at any moment it can break into pieces.


And here comes the speciality of the room. The back door of the room, being a short-cut passage to the market, makes the room public. This short route is like a hot cake here; and for this reason, everyday from morning to afternoon, I have to keep the doors open and watch people coming in and going out. People with different getup, different behaviour, different kinds of dresses…but all of them have a common thing in them: they all are curious about me. Some of them ask about my work, some about my family and some are even more confused…they try to narrate all their family problems to me. Due to the respect for them and because I don’t have many a things to do generally, I have to listen to their problems from time to time.

Beside the road, on the opposite side of my room, lives the Punjabi family, my favourite neighbour, and it is a nice job for me to watch them. They have two cars, and both the cars shout like bulls, and the little boys on the road shout at them. But you can curse them, laugh at them, though you can’t help but love the two daughters of the Punjabi parents, the same two girls aging between eighteen to twenty, who were the popular topics of the boys’ talking in the town.

Sameer, a young local boy makes me know about the hot gossips about the town from time to time, and it’s through him I get to know all the happenings in town. Sometimes I give him a rupee to have tea and he becomes so glad that it turns out to be hard for me to control him.

“What do you do?” one day Sameer asked me while eating some fruits in my room.

I told him that I watch people all the time, and that’s the only thing I do.
“Is it a work?” he asked again.

“Do you think it is?”

“Of course not, I mean, what is your work?”

“Well, I write stories and other things that are true…now, is that enough to be a work?”

“So you are a writer?” he smiled, and looking at him, I smiled too.


Life is the same here everyday, though not boring. At the early hours of morning, a hindustani passes the road selling the sugarcane-juice, pushing a four-wheeled machine that crushes the canes and juice gets deposited into the mug kept under it. I taste it sometimes, and it tastes best when it is mixed with lemon and salt. Then on the road it is the flower girl, making her way to the bazaar. She always uses the long road outside, ignoring the path via my room. I have never seen her taking the shortcut. Though, it’s very often that our eyes meet, and we wave our hands at each other.

Then come all the grocers of the bazaar. Some through my room and some are energetic enough to take the long route outside. Meanwhile, I do some of my business, buying fruits from some of my well known sellers. I try to start a conversation with them and it’s very often they are in a hurry to leave quickly. Later, in the second half of morning, the local people start coming in. Some in their dhoti and punjabis, some in pants and shirts, pass my room giving a quick smile to me and proving themselves pretty obliged and gratified. But this thing, to me is becoming unbearable now. After all, no one can let the people go in and out through his room all the day, especially when the rent is so high. So, I am planning to collect one rupee from every person willing to pass through my room to market everyday, which I believe – will reduce my problem regarding the rent.


My lunch, which comes from the local popular hotel, is very cheap though the quality of food is good enough. The lunch packet is brought to my room by Sameer – he is a worker there, and feels glad to serve for me. He is a natural joyous child and has simpleness in his wide black eyes…very black, which is also the colour of his body. The packet of food consists of the same thing everyday – the rotis, dal and a vegetable…sometimes a pickle and that’s all. I consume them sitting on the floor, and a white cat often tries to put her head through the windows for some food making me throw pieces of bread at her to drive her away.

And the idle afternoon hours, when I really have nothing to do, no one to talk, no one to hear. I have to listen to my old clock, ticking all the time. The hot may wind trespasses into the room. “A loo,” according to my landlady, “can cause you ill-health.”

There are sounds from the nearby ground of playing football, sometimes cricket – the sounds come floating in the air as a noise. And the sound of Ajaan, coming from the farthest part of the town – the Muslim-patti…which makes me lose myself in the past for a while. These wrap up the afternoon, which sometimes also have the barking of stray dogs, calling of a toyseller – the same man from whom once I bought a whistle and gave it to Sameer.

And after half a year in this town Sultanpur, here I am, sitting just about hundred kilometres away from Delhi, half way to my writing, half way through my next novel.




Narayan comes to chat with me sometimes; he is the brother of the local postmaster here. But apart from that he has another identity too, and that is the only person to have all the informations about everything happening in the town. He literally knows about all the happenings and secrets in town. It’s through him I have come to know about the history of this room, the room I live. Years ago, this house used to belong to the husband of my landlady. This room was just a store room back then. It’s only after the death of her husband, the lady realised that the store room at the ground floor can be used as renting purpose. Few changes were made in the room, and it was a ready resource for an extra income adding to the pension for the landlady. It was only then the back door was discovered and people started taking the shortcut through the room. Now-a-days, as I realise, the room has turned into something that is called a ‘dalaan’ in Hindi. It doesn’t have any privacy at all. At public demand, I have to keep both the doors open till evening. It’s not a regret by the way, because as a writer, it helps me talk to people of several type all the time…but sometimes you would really feel grateful to have atleast some level of privacy in your room. I don’t have that. And as I have already mentioned, one more time the landlady comes to me and talks about increasing the rent, I will leave the room.

And then one day while talking to me in my room; Narayan started telling me about the previous inhabitant of this room. He turned towards me suddenly and said,

“Have I told you about Arun?”

“I’m afraid not. Who’s he by the way?”

“Ah...I haven’t, have I? He was the previous boy here, just before you rented this room, actually. You see the cabinets down there…one of them was used by him only. He forgot to leave the keys to the cabinet before he left, and after that it has just remained the way it used to, locked. He was a nice boy by the way…used to work for the post office itself, as a junior clerk. It was only after he got a job in Delhi, he left the room within a very few days’ notice. All of us, who knew him, loved him. And the love was in a greater volume for the Punjabi girl I guess, who fell in love with him…”

“Okay” I said, “so, we have a love story here?”

“Not exactly a love story, I would say…because they never got a chance to be together…but still, in a town like this, where people love to hear gossips, a smoke is enough to keep people reminding about the fire that was once on…”


I kept thinking about the words Narayan said that day. It reminded me of several things but my work kept me reminding that I had to finish my writing very soon. My money was coming to an end and given the fact that I had received only three cheques from the ‘Delhi Journal’ in the last four months and that was only reminding me that I will have to write something of materialistic value and make it reach the market again…it was pretty clear that time was against me. I tried concentrating on the novel again, but it didn’t help me much too.

Soon the month of October came and the festival of the festivals – the Durga Puja started in Sultanpur. I locked myself up inside my room, worked day and night, only in the hope to finish my work soon. The first days of the occasion made me feel lonely all over again. I kept looking at the candles and lightings people used in their homes and kept losing myself in the past. I wondered what would have happened with Arun and the Punjabi girl. How far they had gone for their love? Why did they fall apart? Does that love still exist? The happiness of the people outside made me feel lonely to leave me with such questions.

It reminded me about my childhood. How I was sent to a hostel when I was ten years old. And when I came back, I found myself as a boy who could not cope up with his family anymore. For him, his world was his friends, and when that world came to an end, he didn’t find anything which could actually satisfy his needs. I started as a junior writer in one of the local newspapers when I was eighteen…and after a few references and probably with the help of a few good writings; I got a few chances to make it to The Times of India. A few more Journals, a few more newspapers, all national level this time…and then it was my turn to take writing seriously, as a profession. I left my home and started travelling, the only thing I wanted since my childhood. This story continued, getting cheques from the publishers once in a month, rarely twice and renting a room, writing a story and moving on again. And the same story has taken me here today, a town about hundred kilometres away from Delhi. I am happy as a freelancer. I am happy, writing.


Winter comes, silently. Some Decembers have seen a temperature of as low as four degree here, as I am told by the local people. Lesser people on the path in the morning, in the evening, lesser interactions, more warm clothes on the road, more steaming out kettles, more orders of tea and coffee in the stalls here and there, while my room keeps me giving trouble. Broken window, wooden doors helping the freezing wind to come in. I lit up a fire sometimes, and it helps. And then one night, to all my surprise someone knocked at the back door of my room when my table clock showed one hour past midnight.

It was Mohan, the vagabond. Most of the times he used to remain in the jail, because of his miscreant nature. He was a regular member of a criminal gang once, and irrespective of the fact that he said that those days were well after him, he still carried the habit of stealing from places. At present, he was drunk, and could hardly walk or stand. He was returning from the bazaar with an empty bottle of country drink. A true drunkard he was, and no man in his full senses would have liked to start a conversation with him.

I need a shelter for tonight, he said. No introductory words, nothing. Just those lines. I felt sad for him. I invited him in and offered some food, as he refused it. I understood the liquid had started doing its job quite well. Within a few minutes, he felt comfortable. Warmth and shelter, as I wondered that day and gathered can make a beast meet the heaven. The creature sitting ten feet away started singing…and it left me amazed. What depths can a person hide within himself that even after having such a low esteem for oneself in the society, he produces such gifts out of nowhere.

The song ended. Mohan looked at me and said, ‘why do you think some people end up on the wrong side of the world?’

I couldn’t answer at first. Here was a person, having the experiences of all the wrong-doings of the world, sitting in my room on a chilling night and asking me questions about something, the answer of which I have tried to find out myself.

‘I don’t know’, I said. ‘But perhaps with love, people can be brought back to normal life’.

‘Love is just a four letter word, mister. And it’s not me; it’s the experience, the real life talking.’

I wondered that night, lying on my bed about the world we live. About the sufferings we make. Are those people really bad whom the society has marked as bad? What could be their part of the story? Was there something the society could have done to bring them back, or have stopped to make them go to that level at the first place, and it did not?

That morning brought sunshine for the world but it filled me with several questions of life. Mohan had gone with the first daylight, and what was worse, as the representative of another world, he injected their core problems in my heart.


Within a few weeks, I end my writing with some two or three more murders and then introducing a few twists and turns in the end to make the murderer look like a psychopath, and eventually making him commit suicide. It looks as if I have done justice with the story. But then again, no one can really say. Unless and until you get that cheque from your publisher, you are once again up for another story.

I finish the first draft of the story. Assemble the pages and keep it inside my trunk. I write a few letters to some of the Journals and Magazines I am linked with and put them in my table to send them later. And then I go upstairs and knock the door of my landlady. I put a smile in my face, and make the conversation as light as possible. At the end of it, I make her know that I will be leaving the room within a week. I thank her for all the help she did all these months, as she keeps standing there hovering in the thoughts whether she actually did any, but I know I have done my job. She gets herself together, and reminds me to do some formal signings and payments, as I confirm her. I take my leave from her.


I realised I will have to take my formal leave from only one person in the town. And that was Sameer. I found him playing in the field in the afternoon. I waved at him, and he came running in.

“Sameer…” I said, “How are you? Where have you been now-a-days?”

He smiled. A bright one, at that. I felt bad for him. Within these months, he found me really close to his heart. When I will be gone, maybe nobody will even ask for him.

I am going away Sameer, once and for all. I said.

“I know sir…” he said. “Don’t worry about me; I know you think that I will feel bad once you are gone. But life itself is a sad song, isn’t it?”

I smiled. He knew way too much compared to his age.


And thus came the last night for me in Sultanpur.

Time. And it passes more quickly when it is not desired so. The nostalgic afternoon turned into a hasty evening in turn making the night a dead and hesitant one within a few seconds. With all my loneliness and thoughts of leaving the known…again, I became the only person awake in the room, in the colony, and probably in the whole town. I was going to a new place again, leaving the old. A new place, new people, new room and a new story. But will I be able to forget what this room has given to me? Will I be able to forget the people here? Mohan died in an accident two days after the night we talked. Sameer had decided to leave the town and return to his ancient place to help his father in farming. In a way, it seemed everyone was leaving Sultanpur. What was worse, I was leading them.


Fifteen minutes. That’s what I had before leaving the town by train. I got a seat by the window side and kept looking at the platform.

The vendors, the coolies and above all the passengers in and outside the train created nuisance to each other. The advertising boards, the beggars on the platform, chips and cold drinks at the stalls, a naked child crying his heart out standing on the platform…the colours of this wonderful world mixed forever in my heart.

Another life was beginning.

Months ago, a sharp, lightened afternoon saw me getting down in this platform to start a new life here: new people, new gossips to hear, and a new story to write. I came across a room that took away the privacy of my life, in a way giving me another view of life. The no-private room will be there, marking the presence of an emblem of confinement of human mind. In a way, it marked the symbol of an obstacle within me. An obstacle, which only helped me being dedicated to my work, and see those sides of the world I was not exposed to. In a way, as I believed…no-private room exists in everybody’s life. It’s just that you will have to find it out, and then gather your strength from that drawback of your side. It will try to confine you, and it will be your job to come out of that confinement. In a way, I succeeded.

Another life was finishing…

The engine whistled, leaving my memories of the happy past far behind.

“Don’t be unhappy. Life itself is a sad song…”

The engine whistled again.

“Life itself…life itself is a sad song.” The last words of Sameer made a smoke in the air. And then it blended with the steam coming out of the engine of the train.

I tried hard to control tears in public.

“I am not unhappy, because I know my fate. We can’t bet upon things we don’t have. I started as a writer and will end just like that.” I muttered.

Life gives us some time to live, and time snatches the most precious parts of our lives from us.


The distant signal kept getting hazier against the speed of the train and at last disappeared from my eyes.




-August '11