When you enter a room whose door proclaims "Clapton is God" you know you are in for an interesting time to say the least.
Everything in the tiny room spoke of amusing carelessness. A fan whirred lazily, tracing ignorant circles in mid-air, blowing a charmingly cool whoosh into the room. There were books strewn on the table, a Bar-One lay unopened, a laptop sat quietly at one end. We sat down on the bed, its sheets slightly awry, wrung from last night's sleep, sighing away dreams. The pillow was propped in a messy bunch, coverless and worn. Newspapers, a weird gadda and other unecessaries swept the floor. I looked around fascinated. One wall lay draped in a poster of Zidane. Near it lay a tired little basket, full of yesterday's dirty clothes. On the cupboard Dennis the Menace was proclaiming something. Nearby, red football cleats lay, their laces undone in fatigue. There was a tiny blue mirror hooked onto a wall, a much-used comb balanced precariously on it. A makeshift soft-board, made from thermocol, adorned one wall. On it were a few crazy photographs. Of friends. In glee-filled times. Those kinds of photographs which have an interesting way of capturing the silliest of expressions. A coffee-maker (whose services were deemed indispensable by the owner) sat on the chair.
Chatter filled the sir. Silly, forgotten anecdotes were retold and laughed over. The greenery outside breathed into the room. As we left, I couldn't help oggle at this beautiful room one last time.