Preena Shrestha:

An unkempt bed, rumpled sheets; a desk, cluttered with papers, books and several coffee mugs. Clothes strewn on the floor, closet flung wide open; a trail of hair bands and jewellery leading to the mirror, surrounded by make-up and hairbrushes, twice as disorderly when reflected. Candles astray, dripping wax frozen on their sides, including those that landed on the carpet. Haphazardly decorated walls; empty bookshelves; old toys and school crafts gathering dust, barely visible under the CDs. Welcome to my room.

Dad calls it the ‘post-war zone’ and mom not-so-politely refers to it as ‘’recently ransacked’. They’re both exaggerating, in my opinion. Often, they can be found surveying the scene from the safety of the doorway, noses screwed up in obvious disapproval, whispering distastefully to each other. And I’ve heard the word ‘dump’ more than once.

Its not like I haven’t tried. I’ve hovered around with the vacuum cleaner a few times, folded clothes, scrubbed surfaces with a polishing rag, heck, I’ve even fiddled with the bottle of cologne my mom’s so fond of. But it’s pointless. After a long, exhausting, not to mention grimy cleaning session, everything is proper and spotless. For about two days.

Yep. That’s how long it takes me to revert to my old ways and trash the place again, and that’s considering I restrain myself. Seriously, I don’t know why my parents cling to the hope that one day I’ll turn into instant ‘organised-daughter’. I know they wonder if it’s a case of defective genes. Or a mix up at the hospital!

But really, my room is my personal space. And how I use it is my own decision, which is why I despise people telling me to get it together. At the end of a long, hard day, its my retreat. Why shouldn’t I customise it to suit my comfort? And if, by ‘customize’, I mean leaving my jacket where I dropped it, as long as it doesn’t bother me (or trip me up, for that matter) what’s the problem? I’d like to loosen up and relax at least when I get home.

So, here I sit, sprawled on the floor amidst a cluster of cushions and fluffy stuffed animals. A week since I cleaned up. I see the walls adorned with those incomprehensible paintings I made, leaves I collected, that silly poem I found, and photographs of people who mean so much to me. I see the guitar I cant seem to give away, those flowers I got years ago, all dried up now, that night-lamp I’ve been using since forever - everything here has a story behind it. And so, I smile, because despite the mess and the disorder, it still feels like home.