A Place of My Own

A Place of My Own

College hostels are academic and social asylums for students, bringing about a balmy effect on them when they return in the evenings from their daily drudgery of scathing classes and balding professors.

To me, my room in the hostel was a place of my own. There was something special about it - the alignment of bed (with its stark purple bedcover); the big rusty grilled window; the decorations on the wall; the open balcony looking straight into horizon while herding past the manicured gardens and wild plantations on way; the study table loaded with things that I would deem essential to my happiness like books, reading materials, my journals, stationery, picture frames, paint colours, brushes, greeting cards and my beloved dictionary, apart from the other indispensible paraphrenalia.

The whole setup was somehow just too perfect for me. I'd wake up with the early morning white sun peeping through my window. Oh, how lovely it would be to hear little birds sing a wake up serenade. The furry squirrel would come scurrying on the balcony parapet slowly gnawing on those tiny broken crumbs of sweet biscuit I would leave for them every night.

How then would I get up so delightfully; yet completely oblivious of the pandemonium that would greet me ahead!