From an email I wrote to a friend a year ago:
I never wrote on my jeans, because during the age at which people usually write on their jeans, I didn't own any jeans. I went through Law School without a pair of jeans. I had one, actually, which I wore only when I was forced to - the Law school choir's uniform was black shirt/kurta/t-shirt/top, blue jeans. I never liked jeans then. I wore loose, baggy pants with too many pockets, pairs and pairs of formal trousers deformalised and crumpled out of shape, pyjamas, shorts and veshtis.
Only my hostel room wall had stuff on it - random newspaper articles, poems written out on pieces of paper, posters of famous people, posters of not-so-famous people, a large Rajnikanth poster, tons and tons of college stuff/rock show publicity (I designed much of them), an empty cheese box with a cow on it, some prints of Anjali Ela Menon's paintings, CD covers of CDs I had lost... There wasn't an inch of space on the wall for anything. Some time in my fifth year, I redesigned the entire wall. Made it a thin band of posters that ran around the room, leaving large empty spaces. It gave me great pleasure to walk around the room with back issues of Rave, Rolling Stones, Sportstar, Times of India, Asian Age, a pair of scissors, and cellotape, standing on a chair, cut, paste, get down, walk a few steps backward, behold, shake head in dissatisfaction, get on chair, cut, paste, remove, readjust, review.
I miss having a wall of my own, sometimes. One I can do anything with, you know.