room no 210
— the space I built to survive, to celebrate, to feel human again.
I didn’t move into Room 210 — I escaped into it.
Before it, I had shared rooms and air and grief and gossip with others. But Room 210? That was my first khaali kamra (empty room). Empty only when I entered — never again.
Before we go there, let me take you back.
I was never supposed to need a single room. I used to think shared spaces were how you made college “worth it.” That real friendship happened in bunk beds and whisper fights and shared conditioner bottles. My first room — Room 108 — was a fever dream of beginnings. Three girls. Strangers who became sisters within the first week. We stayed up at night ranking crushes and pulling each other’s legs and braiding each other’s hair before viva exams, promising to always stick together.
We were loud and inseparable... until we weren’t.
One fight. That’s all it took. A misunderstanding turned ego battle. Group chats split. Words became weapons. The bed that once felt warm began to feel tight, suffocating. We'd come in and sleep with our backs to each other. We turned into ghosts with schedules. We used to fight over who gets the last biscuit, now we fought over passive-aggressive silences.
I shifted out.
The next room was with just one girl — someone I thought would bring me relief. And she did. For maybe 6 days. Then her mess began crawling into my life. Clothes never folded. Wet towels thrown on the bed. Mold in the kettle. Loud calls at midnight. A general disregard for boundaries. And me? I kept adjusting. Quietly, guiltily. “It’s just a room,” I told myself. “I don’t need much.”
Until one day, I sat on my bed with my feet lifted off the floor because it was that messy, and I realized — I don’t feel safe here.
Not safe-safety. Mental safety. Emotional safety. Peace.
That night, I googled “single room application form.”
Two weeks later, I got it. Room 210.
Second floor. Corner room. Painted wall. Iron latch that clicked just right.
I moved in with two bags and a stomach full of quiet guilt. Was I too sensitive? Too particular? Too “I need space” in a place that teaches you to shrink?
But baby, the first night in Room 210 — I slept like I hadn’t slept in months.
No snores. No loud calls. No background chaos. Just me. My pillow. My fan. My peace.
It was empty, yes — but it was mine.
I made it a home.
I didn’t realise how much of myself I’d lost in shared chaos until I began reclaiming parts of me in 210.
I rearranged the furniture three times before it felt right.
I bought bedsheets in yellow and beige. I strung fairy lights across the window grille. I got a kettle for chai — a kettle I cleaned. I placed all my books by the window. I made a shelf of just "comfort reads" and random notes from old friends.
There was one wall — painted. Not hostel white. Not hostel dull. A beautiful, gentle Buddha beneath a tree. Eyes closed, radiating a stillness I was desperate to mirror.
I didn’t tell many people at first. I was protective of it. My haven. I remember thinking, “Yeh deewar bhi thak chuki hogi sab dekh ke.”
(This wall must be tired too, after witnessing so much.)
Then came her.
My junior. My accidental soul sister.
She was just one year younger but came to me like a lost puppy. One day she came knocking for my kettle. Then for salt. Then for "just five minutes, I promise" which turned into an hour of trauma-dumping and biscuit-sharing.
Before I realized it, my room became hers too.
Every sickness, she showed up — blanket in one hand, cribbing in the other.
Every heartbreak — she flopped on my bed face-first like a dying starfish.
Every evening — she'd knock and ask, “chai?” And I’d already have the mugs ready.
She became my little shadow. My chosen family.
She cried in my lap. I braided her hair once during a breakdown. She stitched my torn kurta. I cooked her Maggi when her anxiety spiked. She cooked for me when depression got the best of me. Trading clothes, being family, we became the siblings that crossed the universe to get to each other.
There was no “mine” anymore. It was ours. Not the room. But the comfort. The grief-space. The shared exhale.
210 became a ritual.
Every semester exam season — the table would become a war zone of pens, highlighters, lecture printouts, and last-minute panic attacks. I made “sacred” rules like one chai break every 3 hours and crying only allowed in the last row of paragraphs. Sometimes I’d study with my legs tucked under me on the bed, with one headphone in, pretending I knew what the hell “structuralism” meant. Sometimes I’d fall asleep with books on my chest. While “he” would call me and wake me up, he would teach me stuff and same did I, my comfort zone, everything.
During festivals, we lit up 210 like it was mini-Diwali.
Rangoli (badly drawn), lights (diyas), music (very loud).
During birthdays, we decorated with balloons from the store and threw surprise parties that were never actually surprising.
And New Years?
Oh, baby.
We hosted countdowns on the floor with juice in paper cups like it was champagne. Once, 3-4 people were crammed into that tiny room, dancing to Bollywood songs and screaming “HAPPY NEW YEAR” while our neighbors knocked to tell us to shut up — and joined us ten minutes later.
Those nights, my heart swelled up so big I swear the Buddha on the wall smiled.
But not every day was party lights and comfort.
Some days were heavy.
The hostel was toxic at times — rules that didn’t make sense, cliques that whispered, judgements that burned.
And being a girl who didn’t fit neatly into expectations meant constantly defending myself — for being loud, for being quiet, for being alone, for saying no.
210 was my bubble. When the world outside felt like a boxing ring, I’d come back, lock the door, and let myself fall apart.
Sometimes I wouldn’t talk to anyone for two days. Just music. My kettle. My thoughts. My healing.
I learned to be by myself. Fully, deeply. I learned that being with myself didn’t have to feel like punishment. I wrote poems. I rewatched old shows. I stared at the ceiling and let grief come and go like waves.
It was in that room that I first said: "I love myself."
Whispered. Quiet. But honest.
The last day... I didn’t cry. Not then.
I packed up slowly. Fairy lights. Mugs. Suitcases (I had lots, 7 to be exact.) My sister came in, curled up on the bed one last time, and said nothing. We just sat there. She never cried when I left, but did once I crossed past the gates.
Before I locked the door, I whispered,
“Shukriya.”
(Thank you.)
For holding me when I had nothing.
For witnessing every version of me — wild, weepy, healing, growing.
And I think that room — that beautiful 210 — whispered it back.
Because some rooms don’t just hold your things.
They hold you.
—Mukta
