If you told me at the beginning of this trimester that I would spend my precious, hard-earned money on cleaning supplies and that these supplies would become the emotional backbone of my existence, I would’ve laughed. A dramatic, hand-on-heart, “this girl is delusional” kind of laugh. And yet here I am, standing before bottles of Colin, Lizol, Scotch-Brite microfiber cloths, and a no-dust broom, treating them with the reverence of ancient relics.
Maybe it’s adulthood. Maybe it’s the hostel survival instinct. Maybe it’s the fact that my room had begun to resemble the emotional state of someone who has three breakdowns a week. But somewhere between losing my water bottle, misplacing my sanity, and spilling coffee on my floor for the fourth time in one day, I decided I needed order or at least the illusion of it.
So I bought a pack of 3 Colins–500 ml, because one bottle clearly wasn’t enough for whatever spiritual grime was haunting my room. The first time I sprayed it on my desk, I genuinely felt like a goddess smiting the darkness. Watching the blue liquid dissolve weeks of dust felt church-like–holy, even. The table glowed, and I glowed with it. Suddenly, life was 10% cleaner and 40% more manageable.
Then came Lizol Disinfectant, the yellow one that smells like citrus hope. The day it arrived felt like a festival, and I opened the bottle like I was uncorking fine wine. I poured a generous amount into a bucket, grabbed a rag, and cleaned my floor with the devotion of someone purifying their soul. By the time I finished, my room didn’t just smell clean, it smelled like rebirth. Like I could journal without crying. Like I was capable of passing my courses.
But nothing-and I mean nothing-prepared me for the emotional support that came in the form of my microfiber cloths. They’re pink, soft, and somehow judgmental in a loving way. They make you want to clean. They whisper, “Fix your life, babe.” And you listen. Suddenly, the windowsill, bookshelf, mirror, laptop screen, metal bottle, even the air around you-everything becomes wipeable, solvable, conquerable. It’s powerful. Terrifying. Beautiful.
And of course, the grand finale: the No-Dust Broom. Not the traditional annoying broom that leaves more mess than it collects. No. This broom is elite. Refined. Emotionally stable. It gathers dust like it’s collecting evidence against your past self. The long handle saves your spine (which, frankly, is already compromised from sitting like a shrimp while studying). Every morning I sweep the floor with a dramatic flourish, the way poets imagine heroines reclaiming kingdoms.
Together, these purchases transformed my room from “possible biohazard” to “girl who has her life together (or can at least pretend convincingly).”
But here’s the real truth–cleaning is not about the room. It’s about the mind that lives inside it.
When classes felt overwhelming, when friendships felt confusing, when assignments piled higher than the dust on my window, cleaning gave me back a tiny piece of control. Every wiped surface was a small prayer. Every sprayed corner was a quiet exhale. Every sweep of that broom was a reminder that chaos doesn’t have to win every day.
People talk about self-care like it’s candles and bubble baths, but sometimes it’s Colin at 2 a.m. Sometimes it’s Lizol in a bucket. Sometimes it’s a pink microfiber cloth that sees you at your lowest and says, “We can move, change, clean.”
So yes, the most questionable purchase I made this trimester was cleaning supplies. But they saved me-not dramatically, not poetically. But quietly, in the simple, steady way clean spaces make you feel a little less like you’re falling apart.
And honestly? That’s worth every rupee.