“A Room? Why....”

Panklush now has her own room. Not just a room. A full apartment. It is not a big one—a 10' X 12' room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a closet, which in Panklush's mind, could pass for a very small room. What in college lingo is called a“studio.” But still. It is her own place. Where Panklush can throw off her socks on top of the bathroom counter and there is no one to yell at her. Where she can leave her books on her bed for days and days and days and days and no one in the world would even utter a word. That's why Panklush loves her place. It's not big. But big enough to hold Panklush, her laptop, books, notebooks, CDs and films. Panklush lives here alone. Without parents, roommates, lovers or spouses.

* * * *
Panklush has a room at the edge of the town. A fifteen minute bus ride to her university campus. A fifteen minute ride back. Every night Panklush takes the 9.18 shuttle and on her way home watches life pass by. Life in the suburb of a mid-sized American university town. Rows and rows of same-looking white houses. Yellow lights oozing out from the windows and blurred glass doors. Microwaves. Refrigerators. Couches, dining tables and TVs. How come the inside of every freaking house here looks like a hotel? Damn it all, Panklush yearns for some Third World disorderliness.
Solitary figures inside the same-looking white houses. Men and women, young and middle-aged reading or eating their lonely dinners in front of their lonely TV sets. They all have rooms of their own. Why rooms? Houses. Panklush dreads eating her dinners alone. So every night she tries to invite someone along. A friend. An old student turned friend. A fellow student struggling with lonely TV dinners. And on nights Panklush cannot get anyone to come with her, she calls up a friend while eating.

* * * *
Panklush's Baba, like most Bengali Marxist-Leninists, or simply M.L. s, or semi- M.Ls, or almost- M.L.s or M.L. S from-safe-distance, does not read things written by women. Not that he would admit that ever. But he simply does not. Well, maybe other than Mahasweta Debi.
Panklush's Ma, on the other hand, reads anything she can lay her hands on. And anything she likes, she reads out to her dear husband—Panklush's Baba. Who normally snorts, utters a couple of “Hmm....?”s, “Aaaahh...?”s and continues with his “Frontier”, “Economic and Political Weekly” or whatever. Panklush is pretty sure that he never even hears a word of what she is reading out. Panklush is also not sure why her Ma continues with this routine for years on end....but then, if this is how they have decided to sustain their love or whatever is it, who is Panklush to comment or complain?
But then, on a rare occasion, Baba did respond. Ma had just finished reading the last two paragraphs of a short story by Ashapurna Debi. A straightforward narrative about a wife getting the upper-hand in a conversation with her husband over housework. Simple, but full of Ashapurna's customary quirks. Even fourteen old Panklush pretending to be attentive to her a+b-whole-square formulas, couldn't help smiling to herself. Baba snorted, took off his reading glasses, lifted his left ass-cheek up and after relishing every moment of letting out a noisy but stinkless fart, which, made Panklush want to hide under the bed with embarrassment, said:

“Bujhle, Ashapurna Debi-Tebider mato lekhikader mushkil holo ei je, era dhortei parenna ki je eishob paribarik samasyaro ekta arthanaitik o rashtriya bhitti achhe.” See, the problem with women writers like Ashapurna Debi is that, they cannot understand that even domestic problems have their roots in an economic base and a state structure.

Mahasweta Debi passed her Baba's tests because she, unlike most women writers, writes about “economic base” and “state structures.” Needless to say, Panklush's Baba have never read anything by Virgina Woolf or even her A Room of One's Own, If he had, or if he, by any chance guessed remotely its importance in the history of feminist thought, he might have actually given Panklush her own room during her growing years. If for nothing else, just for the sake of political correctness.

* * * *
In Little Women, Meg, Jo, Beth and Amy had their own rooms. No, they didn't have a room each. They shared a room between themselves. But still...their own space....maybe, even their world? In What Katy Did, Katy and her siblings had their own rooms. Rooms where they had fun, drove each other crazy, kept things in secret. To the twelve year old Panklush, these rooms were alluring. One of the reasons why she would go back again and again to the two mid-nineteenth century American books written specifically for girls. Precisely because in their two and a half room single-storied house in Kolkata, she did not have her own room. Three rooms. Six people. Panklush, Panklush's Baba, Panklush's Ma, Panklush's Thamma, Panklush's Dadu, Panklush's mentally challenged Pishi. If you think about it according to the rules of rational arithmetic, that's like two people in each. Four of them married to one another. So, the truth of the matter is, no one really cared about Panklush having her own room.

* * * *
Panklush knew they were not poor. Proper food at proper times. Proper clothes. Proper leisure. But Panklush did not have her own room.
On most days, she would be shuffled around with her books, pencils and notebooks. A corner in this room. The empty bed in that. The verandah the next day. Depending upon where some space could be acquired. Depending upon what responsible adults would be talking about. Whether it was too 'adult' or not. For a long long time, Panklush has wondered what it is that made her parents forget she might have a need for her own room. At least some kind of her own space. Whether it was lack of money or something else.

* * * *
In Panklush's father's house, there was a living room. The room which constituted the half of the two and half. A room with mosaic floors. A taktaposh for the guests to sit. Little green, maroon and purple elephants ran through the surface of the bedspread which covered the taktaposh. Now that Panklush has to manage bedspreads on her own, she knows green and blue colored textiles discolor slowly. Although no amount of green and blue can salvage the apology of a bedspread which now covers her mattress on the floor. Especially since the bedspread hasn't seen the face of a washing machine in the last five months.
Anyway, it is on this taktaposh that Panklush sat down every morning and evening to prepare her lessons. Porte bosha, or sitting down to read, as they say in Bengali. With the arrival of any guest, which was not occasional by any means, she would get her books, notebooks and pencils together and leave the room. Panklush loved those brief moments of intervention. She would demonstrate this sudden impulse to appear very orderly—she would pile up her books one by one, gather them up in a very neatly arranges tack. She would count her pencils and carefully put them back into the pencil-box. And invariably, the erasure would lose itself. So another couple of minutes would be spent in looking for it—within the folds of the bedspread, between the pages of her books and notebooks, under the bed. The whole ritual would take around five to seven minutes to be completed. On lucky days, when no one would be paying her much attention, ten.
To Panklush, those five to seven minutes were important. Five to seven minutes between herself and her textbooks. Five to seven minutes of the adult conversation. Panklush knew, on most days, she would have to leave, eventually. Into one of the two other rooms—her parents' bedroom, which was also her room by default. Panklush often liked the fact that she can use her not having enough space as an excuse. Often. For not doing her homework. For not preparing her singing lessons on time. Instead she could listen to the stories. Concentrate on the arguments.
Sometimes not having a room of your own can make things more interesting.

* * * *
The room where Panklush had prepared almost all her lessons, read all her books didn't have a table. It had a big bed and a thin mattress which covered the wooden surface of the bed. Panklush, generally, liked to lie straight on her tummy on the bed and read. Or write. She liked the visual appeal the image of a reading human body slated into a table and chair produced, but by the time she was six, Panklush was familiar with the softness of the bed and the comfort of spreading her limbs on it while reading.
She would position herself exactly in the middle of the bed, spread all her books, notebooks and pencils around. Indeed, sometimes, taking up space is the only thing you can do to let others know that you need certain things.
In the room where Panklush prepared most of her lessons and read most of her books, almost nothing, except for the thin drawing books, broken crayons, few school textbooks and “storybooks”, were hers. For a long time, they lay about the room as if not sure whether they really belonged there.
The room, in question, was the one which Panklush's parents used as their bedroom.

* * * *

Panklush remembers that day distinctly—the day when they gave her a little shelf. She was eight and now as she tries hard to remember, has no freaking idea where her things were kept until the shelf arrived. The shelf, Panklush now thinks, had three small but wide wooden planks fixed onto four more sturdy wooden supports and was kept right next to the bed. Propped up against the wall.
After eight years, Panklush had finally begun to occupy some space inside her parents' room.

* * * *
But then, there's only so much space you can take up inside one's parents bedroom. Even if we leave out the bi-weekly scraps with Ma over Panklush's much talked-about untidiness, there is no way one can ignore the fact that one does not remain eight for the rest of one's life.
So, like almost every being in human history, Panklush discovered one summer afternoon that she too has a body. And if you touch that body in specific places, it quivers. And just as she had discovered that she had a body, Panklush also discovered the cobwebby darkness of the bathroom is not the best place to enjoy that quivering. You need to spread yourself in order to feel it fully.
And, unfortunately, you cannot always spread your limbs in the same way in your parents' room, Or on your Ma and Baba's bed. Especially if you are trying to learn the secrets of your body.

* * * *
The first time Panklush ever talked to her father about her father's own room was when she was almost fourteen and waiting for her Class 8 classes to begin. To her very timid interjection, “Baba, it would be so much nicer if I could have my own room,” her Baba retorted with a dazed expression, “Keno?” Why? And then after three seconds of silence, “We are not as rich as some of your school friends.” Panlush already knew that. But she could not exactly figure out what that “why” meant. But whatever it was, it sure did push back Panklush's clear vocal demands for her own room for another five years or so.

* * * *
It takes very little to be friends when you are between thirteen and fourteen. Like, Panklush and Ronit. There was a certain teacher they both hated in high school. Together and with vehemence. Why, they are not exactly sure now. Except for the fact almost everyone else happened to love him. Never mind what his real name was. Between them, he was Gupi. A name that soon spread to others.
Gupi was known to be one of the most formidable math teacher in their cram-machine high school, wore perfectly square glasses with gold-tinted metal rims, never smiled and began every sentence with, “those of you who will be lucky enough to go for sciences...” Since Panklush never really considered herself to be an insider of that supposedly lucky group, she, when called on by Gupi, could walk with elan to the blackboard, name the four corners of a quadrangle G, U, P, I and walk back to her seat amidst much mirth of her classmates. Leaving Gupi agape for a while and mutter to himself, “Strange kid....G, U, P, I instead of A, B, C, D...hmmm.” But that wasn't the real fun. The real thing was the secret tally sheet which Ronit and Panklush kept. They would tick one line off every time he said his “those-of-you-who-will-be-lucky-enough” and at the end of the class would compare notes and giggle. But that was that. Panklush and Ronit had never shared their biggest secrets. They had never exchanged books. But they had hated and made fun of Gupi together. Until Ronit fell straight on his ass with jaundice.
The first time Panklush visited Ronit in his sick-bed, she was worried about him. And feeling awkward in a way an almost fourteen year old does in front of disease and illness. But Ronit had a room where you could go in, and even shut the door from inside. Although none of them ever wanted to see what would happen if they had closed it. But that wasn't just it. Ronit had the perfect poster on his door—a generally disorderly room, Fido amongst heaps of shoes, clothes, walkman and books. Below it, in bold black: THIS IS MY ROOM. LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT.
And even though Panklush did not have a room, she wanted a poster like that. As she stood in the doorway appreciating it, Ronit winked at her from his sick-bed. That evening, Panklush ended up telling him about Baba's “Keno.” The first secret they ever shared between themselves.

* * * *
Panklush is disorganized, to say the least. And she has always felt a little embarrassed about it. Embarrassed that someone else might have to organize her things for her. Although she totally didn't expect anyone to clean up her mess. Something that probably she would never be able to convince her Ma.
Panklush's untidy habits irked Ma. Ma would try to pursue Panklush to clear her shelf, her end of the room. Panklush would put it off put it off put it off and then Ma would explode one day. She would bring everything down, clean and re-arrange them herself, shouting all the while, “Aamar choddo purushe emon nongra meye dekhini bapu.” Haven't seen a girl as untidy as this one in my fourteen generations. Or, “Meyera je eto ogochhano hoi, etake na dekhle jana hoto na.” Would have never known girls be this disorganized if I hadn't come across this one.
It's not that Panklush hated neat, organized rooms. She just loved disorganized rooms better. And while it is probably true that she is the messiest person in her world, she can create her own organization within disorganization. Which allowed her to find specific books when she needed them. Or locate a piece of half-torn paper in which she had scribbled some notes.
While much of Panklush's dis-organization was just unintentional, it's true she didn't attach a whole lot of importance to it. [bridge?] More than a decade after confiding to Ronit her Baba's “keno,” Panklush moved to a house with four others. For the first time in her life, Panklush had her own room and did not bother to clean it up or organize too much. There was no Ma around this time.
A day every year. That's all she is ever going to devote to cleaning, dusting and vacuuming.

* * * *
Panklush's roommate Kathy found it hard to concentrate on her work if everything around her wasn't neatly categorized and classified. Kathy would have names written down on little pieces of paper, stick them onto the multi-colored folders and then would arrange them neatly on shelves.
To Panklush, Kathy's 10'X12' room looked frightfully organized. A single bed at the right-hand side corner. A floral print bedspread to match the pink and purple pastels of her walls. A money plant on her window sill. A work table at the left-hand side. A small orderly bookshelf. An equally orderly closet.
Unlike her own room, Kathy's room had a dressing table and a tall oval-shaped mirror. And in front of that mirror, bottles and bottles of colorful liquids. To make the curves of her body smell sweeter. To make her skin look smoother. Every time Panklush walked past that room, she realized Kathy's room fits perfectly into a known pattern. Like most of the rooms at the girls' hostel at Jadavpur, Kathy's room had too little books. And too much of everything else.
Kathy's room gave Panklush a niggling anxiety. Just going by the state of her dust and paper-filled box of a room, will she ever be considered a full woman?

* * * *
Kathy could indeed laugh. She would throw back her head, shake it on both sides, put her hands on her hips, lean back and laugh. Not giggle, but laugh. Within three weeks of staying with her in the same house, Panklush realized that Kathy was as eloquent in throwing men out of her room as she was in laughing. Think of Alexei, the Russian student, for example. None of Kathy's house-mates knew much about him except for the fact that he is from Russia, speaks English haltingly although correctly, is a student somewhere in this god-forsaken university and is 'seeing' Kathy. Which means he would show up at their door at around nine, would walk straight into Kathy's room and leave in the morning after having his morning coffee with her. And that too in her room. That's how things have been for the last two weeks or so. That's how things normally are with Kathy. So no one paid Alexei much attention until that night.
As Panklush tried to slip into her maroon pajamas as quickly as possible, all she could hear was Kathy's shrill voice. And what seemed like Alexei's muffled justifications. Once she got out of her room, she came across something, she must admit, she hadn't quite expected. Alexei lay on the floor with nothing but his boxer shorts on. Kathy stood above him with her characteristic hands on the hips pose—also with nothing but her red silk lingeries on. The two other house-mates stood in the hallway, evidently not sure how they are supposed to intervene.

“Why couldn't he just sit on it for another three minutes? The screwball....” Kathy shouted.

“What's it, Kathy?” Panklush asked, at the cost of sounding totally obsolete at this hour.

“How can I make love to a person who supports the war? And why does this asshole have to say that right before we began to fuck?”

Then turning her attention to Alexei, “Just get out now, buddy. I don't want to see your ass in my room or in this house anymore. Not for a single second.”

Under different circumstances, Panklush would have intervened. She would have tried to coax Kathy to let Alexei sleep in the living room couch for the night. But it didn't seem like that that's an option Kathy would settle for now. Besides, she didn't know Kathy or Alexei enough to get into that negotiation. So Panklush watched silently from her doorway as Alexei scrambled up his clothes and left in the dark. But there was also another part of her which was waiting for Kathy to come back after locking the main door. And once she did and their eyes met, there was no holding back. For the first time after leaving under the same roof for three full weeks, Panklush and Kathy shared a heavy, hearty laugh between themselves.
So on that Wednesday night, Panklush sat on her bed, sipping her glass of vodka. For the first time in her own room. Kathy kept bumping into Panklush's folders and books, as she tried to walk up and down, reading the titles of some of them which were easily seeable.

“Girl, I love thisss...,” Kathy said at one point.
“Really?”
“Yesss....to get rid of a boy, all you have to do is show him this room.”
“Yeahhhhhh???”
“Believe me, honey, there aren't a whole lot of boys who can digest a woman who can cook up this mess.”

Kathy gestured towards the mounds of paper, books, folders and unwashed clothes.

“Well, it's my room. They can love it or leave it.”

For that night, Panklush left the rest unsaid.

* * * *
One of the greatest things of living in a house without your own room is that, you get to eavesdrop. Listen to and know about things which are totally not meant for you. So, one evening, when she had just graduated into college, Panklush happened to chance upon this conversation between her parents:--

Ma: Panklush is growing up fast...

Baba: Hmmm...

Ma: Look, she is not a demanding child at all. The only thing she has ever wanted from us is her own room....Please do arrange one for her....as it is, she is not going to be in this house for too long.

Baba: Ahh? Hmmm....

Now, if Ma could come this far, maybe it's time for Panklush to strike again?

* * * *

So, exactly two weeks later, Panklush decides to open her mouth at the dinner table:

“Baba, I cannot do without my own room anymore. I need one desperately.”

Baba looks away, for a second, from his umpteenth news program since the evening, “What for?”

“Because I am an adult now. And I need privacy.”

You cannot really insert the word “fucking” as an adjective in Bengali as you do in English. Otherwise, Panklush would have really said, “Because I am a fucking adult.”

“Privacy, my dear daughter, is a bourgeois concept. Don't be a vulgar individualist.”

Now, Panklush could have pushed her plate off from her noisily and left the dinner table. She could have gotten up and kicked the refrigerator door to show that this time she is damn serious. Or she could have yelled at him and said, “Cut that crap out, Baba. Who do you think you really are?” Things she has done in different occasions with varying results.

But instead, this time Panklush, suppressed the loud laughter that kept bubbling inside her. And said, “Yes it is. Indeed. But I thought, being individualist, bourgeois etc. etc. and wanting some privacy....that's a step above the feudal patriarchal control you are going for? The kind you are putting me through? At least it should be? ...according to...hmmm....Marx's understanding of history? And you should know that too? Probably? Better than anyone else?”

Leaving Baba to wonder when did Panklush exactly learn to answer him back in his own rhetoric, Panklush left the table slowly. And while washing her hands at the kitchen sink, decided, this is the last time she ever asked her Baba for a room.

Sometimes, you cannot just keep asking your fathers to build for you your room. No matter who they are. Or what they are. You have to look for one yourself.

* * * *
Panklush now has her own room. Not just a room. A full apartment. It is not a big one—a 10' X 12' room, a kitchen, a bathroom, a closet, which in Panklush's mind, could really pass for a very small room. What in college lingo passes off as “studio.” But still. It is her own place. Where Panklush can throw off her socks on top of the bathroom counter and there is no one to yell at her, Where can leave her books on her bed for days and days and days and days and no one in the world would even utter a word. That's why Panklush loves her place. It's not big. But big enough to hold Panklush, her laptop, books, notebooks, CDs and films. Panklush lives here alone. Without parents, roommates, lovers or spouses.

And now that she has a room, Panklush really needs to look for a balcony.