If I ever had to record how freedom looks and smells like, I would say it’s tucked away in Lubaina’s room. The soft light plays like a soothing background score. The huge mirror makes me look pretty even on my dullest days. The warm bed and the soft tiles;the coffee mugs and earrings. It’s an odd combination but in her room there are no rules. It’s distracting, that’s all I would say. There is so much colour that I get confused and frankly, I have no control over my eyes. Social sense says that if you are in someone’s room, stop looking about. But in Lubaina’s room it’s challenging. It’s like my eyes refuse to take command of my brain and all my properness vanishes. I catch myself picking up stuff and examining them. And while she is talking ( which she is all the time) I start looking at some note, or an interesting book mark or a card, may be a frame, an exquisitely coloured nail paint, or a rather sexy dress or sophisticated footwear looking at me from a corner. Its not entirely my fault too, it feels like a carefully laid out trap. There are these tiny things: right from colourful, usable, attractive, cosy, warm to dressy, elegant and well, yes expensive, not to mention things that I have never heard of. And her soft board. That board stands proudly as if it knows very well that it has some of the most beautiful stories pinned onto it. The cumulative colour that board gives is enough to distract me. I skip from a sexy portrait of hers to a group picture of school friends, to a snippet of her childhood, to two bright sketches of close friends, clips, shreds of paper and lots and lots of brilliant ideas. Yes, that’s why I guess the board is so distracting: It’s got loads of awesome ideas and mischievous smiles playing.
I wouldn’t be exaggerating if I say that the room breathes a life of its own. In its disorganised, unkempt exterior there is a mind at work. May be when she sleeps off, the room wakes up and looks at her with affection and smiles, gently humming a thank you note for giving it a spirit and bringing it to life. May be like her it has dreams and hopes that it works hard for. May be in its clutter there is a warm heart that lets things be;like its owner, who lets people be. And the books seem to take advantage of it all. They have occupied every nook and corner possible. The elegant oak wood book rack stands in the middle, stacked with interesting titles and certain well, yes, curious self-help books. But that’s not it. On her table, books seem to be enjoying a free time. The Reader hangs itself happily over the edge of the desk, an Archer thriller sits over Firmin and A Different Sky looms around. They are happy that finally they have escaped the discipline of the book store.
Happy I feel too: happy to know freedom so closely.