The first room
I can still vividly remember lying on the hard surface of a thin mattress in a shitty dank single room of a cheep guest house in Connaught place in the heart of New Delhi, it was September 2002 . I was staring hard at the flickering fluorescent strip light that was above me and was precariously hanging on to the damp ceiling, only by the thin electric wires that also connected it to the electricty. The television was switched on, though it gave out no pictures or sound but the light that came from its screen was bright and it helped to illuminate my room. I was lying on that bed wondering. ‘What the hell have I done’?
What was on my mind and what I had done, over the course of the previous six months, whilst my house was in the process of being sold was to, day by day, break up every house hold item I had accumulated during the last ten years of living in my house and then systematically, from one week to the next, put everything that I had broken into small pieces then put them into my large green wheelie bin and allowed the refuge collectors to carry all of those broken things off each Tuesday morning.
Impossible though this seems, this included all of my wardrobes, the beds and the tables, I kept only small sentimental objects. My lovely house where I had lived for the last ten years grew bare as the weeks went on, until in the end it was an empty shell, and its last occupant was me.