The patchwork of ten years of grease and moss on the walls grumble about it sometimes. But I hardly ever paid attention to that. It was only today that I realised what had been staring me starkly in the face for all these years. It was only during breakfast at the unswept dining-table, which still had stiff remnants of last night's noodles on it, only at the kitchen rack above the sink, where my mother's hairband hung, stray strands of hair still stuck to it, beside the newly purchased coffee mugs, that it hit me like a hard punch on the noggin.
I live in a pigpen.
Now I know why I mechanically take 2 baths on an average, everyday of the year, even when it's quite cold. I've been known to take as many as 5 a day. It's an intuitive, survivor's instinct to sanitize myself.
It's contradictory, really. Or maybe, you could say there's a subtle balance. For if my bathroom is spotless, then my bed is a mound of clothes dusted over with talcum powder that is sprayed liberally on everything around me, following every shower. If the kitchen is spick and span [except for the rack, it genuinely is], then the fridge door is all splotchy with oily fingerprints. If the washing machine is, of all places, in the pujo'r ghor, then the laundry is awlways in the neat little basket. If my mother's room is a melee of clothes, bills, bed linen, hosiery, huge bed, cutlery, computer and crap, then my father's den looks like the smoking room of a cosy English country inn. Minus the fireplace and the smoke. While the interiors have been freshly painted, the exteriors need serious rescue work.
Which is all such a pity, since the house is very tastefully furnished.