07. A room of one's own

sitting by the fireplace, sipping tea and basking in your warmth.

“People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel”

- Maya Angelou

For someone who doesn’t remember what they ate for breakfast itself, I never really agreed with this. If one thing has always worked for me it's — out of sight, out of mind.

Lately several things have changed. I’ve switched addresses five times in the last two years. My contacts list is full of names I don’t recognize. And no matter how many people I meet, I can still count the ones closest to my heart on one hand.

It’s hard not to drown in waves of nostalgia when the people you love are scattered across the world. When you can’t just drop by and see them anymore, the only thing left is scrolling through old Polaroids and videos, trying to recall

where was this?

what were we doing before?

why am I laughing in this frame?

Memories blurred, I remember how dear they were, in different fonts. After all, maybe I do agree with Maya Angelou. When I think about the people I love, the stars do seem brighter, and the world feels clearer. There’s an ache in my chest that only grows stronger when I remember how they made me feel.

There is a Pinterest board dedicated to my dream room- which is the living room. A small fireplace lit up magically when I need it to be, a soft couch in a deep earthy shade that you sink into with a cozy blanket to wrap yourself in. Towering bookshelves everywhere, a coffee table stacked with print issues of literary magazines I keep promising to catch up on.

Along with a beverage of choice — probably the rose tea with saffron crystals, like the one I discovered in Kilburn.

all pictures from Pinterest!

My reliable couch has withstood 9 years of friendship.

We haven't spoken to each other for months on end, but when we meet again, it’s right where we left off. Faithful and reliable on the days I need it most. Warmth in its embrace that never fades away.

The throw blanket, vibrant and soft, all warm hues overlapping. It always reminds me of Thames and the wavy reflections of the banking district buildings. It is could be highly possible that this is related to our mid-day walks during the chilly monsoon.

Each and every book added to the shelf is a memory I’ve spent, begrudgingly, lovingly, and sometimes by myself, in the middle of a city in a foreign country. The one where my fondest memories lie, in my heart’s deepest chambers. A few worn-out books, with their covers in shambles yet pages intact, centuries old. Several contemporary authors, with quirky names for their books, that I’ve read for the first time. Midway through the book, I understand why it’s called what it’s called.

Hardcover of clear memories that withstand time, and soft paperbacks of late nights that blur at the edges.

The wooden floors, carpeted under your feet. Walk in at any moment, and even your feet can embrace the warmth of the room. How lovely. I type this as she responds to my messages.

There is something about having a friend with whom you’ve been as long as you can remember.

They can surprise you in ways you’d never know.

Anchor you despite not being home.

My favorite teacup sits on the shelf — asymmetrical, with red strawberries painted across its surface. Comes with its own irregular, berry-painted saucer. I will never have the heart to use it.

Do you feel the urge to never use something because it is so precious to you? That it is best kept untouched, preserved in its isolation? Anything that comes close to it might pollute your memory of it?

Sometimes the feeling can’t be helped, and the fear of messing it all up after meticulously making sure everything is okay is grappling. A tiny error of judgment, f4 instead of d5, and you lose all the stacks you carefully planned to win the game.

Of all the things in my room, I’d keep a memory box filled with polaroids and developed film camera slides that allow me to look back in time. The sepia-tinted prints remind me of how young we all were in college. The night that we can’t recall but have proof of. A court case could be built on that evidence: “Here lies the testimony of September 8th, 2022.”

That’s not all. The earrings my friend made, the bow I was gifted, and the pamphlet of the musical I attended — everything goes into the bottomless box of memories. Along with a candle, in hopes that we all meet again,

at the same time, same place.

This piece doesn’t have a conclusion, and I wish I had something practical to say to tie this post together. Alas, my thoughts have all been churned out and I never thought I’d say this but I have indeed run out of things to say. So,

here’s a sneak from one of the upcoming newsletters:

Fresh and tender, white as of moringa.

Such a surprising seed, that gives us water, milk and flowers. Where does a rock like seed learn tenderness from? How does it offer it to the world with such a deceiving exterior?

Contrast, after all, is not about the brown coconut bearing white flowers. It’s the fact that both harshness and tenderness coexist, within and outside, at the same time. Two extremes all at once — reaching out to both in equal measure. 

I made this playlist a while ago, to accompany me as I drink some tea and read a book. hope it warms your heart as it did mine.

Leaving you with this quote, that has stayed with me for so long, I can’t even remember when I first came by it.

Thank you for staying. Hope you can relate and it warms your heart.

+ I hope you liked the goodies this month. 

My Instagram is @nunyums (@ananyarvi if you want my main account) and here is my Goodreads where I (sometimes) update my book lists. My email is nunyums@gmail.com if you want to reach out to me.

All messages are welcome.

Share your favourite parts and tag @nunyums

Wishing you a kinder sea,

Anya