Roommates





By Gautam Bisht





I am from Panama, and I share this place with a girl from India.


Initially, we found our differences intriguing, and we did take interest in each other’s lives. Now I wonder if that was because, away from our homes, we both felt lonely. And lonely people can have low standards for companionship. Over time, the warmth between us dissipated, leaving us dry.


Today we live in this small room as strangers.


And sharing space with strangers can be difficult.

It’s impossible to comfortably stretch and spread without running into some of her stuff.


A blue plastic glass that had once been a makeshift pen holder now contains her clipped nails. A white box of Prozac, an opened bottle of parachute oil and clumps of hair lie on the table. A yellow sticky note with important tasks is lost under entangled wires of all kinds. Beside it is an old newspaper with orange stains from the gravy of kadai chicken she consumed carelessly last night. Somewhere in that debris is a photo frame lying upside down, with a picture of her and her best friend, sitting on a porch of a home that now exists only in her memories.





All I expect is a room where I can breathe. But she is a mess.


Right across the table is her bed, a womb she returns to and hibernates. Her pillow is witness to all her incessant texting a few months ago, which like her moods, went in cycles of appeal, grief, hope, anger, desperation and more appeal, emotions that never really reached the inbox of her lover, who had blocked and deserted her overnight.


I sensed his passive aggression from the very beginning. Anyway, I am glad it’s over.


Now, her cozy blanket holds her like the love of her life. She sleeps like she will never ever run out of tomorrows. Appointments are postponed, missed, and canceled. After being locked up for days, she finally went out today.


I am having a shrinking feeling. Oh! Looks like she is back.


“Have a seat.” She put the white lilies in her hands in the blue glass with her clipped nails. The young man accompanying her, looks around the room with a nervous smile on his face, not sure where to sit.


A little embarrassed, she struggles with the pile of clothes on the chair.

“I guess it was a bad idea to invite you to my place right now.”


A little restless, he opens the window. Finally, some fresh cold air feels fantastic on my skin.

“I am thinking, what can we do so that no time is a bad time to invite me.”


And then,

Both of them move around,

In some rhythm and coordination,

To make a room out of that place again.

She looks around, as if for the first time, again.


A little tired, he rests against the wall, with a bottle of water in his hand and his hair falling on his forehead. Standing in the corner I cannot help but stare. Our eyes meet and he walks straight up to me.


“Oh, I love plants.” She intervenes. I am thankful to her for breaking that awkward silence, but what a liar she is.


“Hmmm" He keeps looking at me.





“My mother gave me this Monstera when I moved here last year. Apparently, it reduces stress.”


I hate that subtle tone of mockery when she talks about me.


“Oh, but Miss Monstera looks pretty stressed out herself.”


She turns red and I turn yellow.


“How about making her a little less upset?” As I look at her, wondering what her strange new friend means, he pours that bottle of water all over me. I look at them, looking at each other endearingly.


Finally, she seems to be in love, and I am definitely wet.