I have this habit of not shutting the doors when I should, of leaving some space as tiny as a cleavage. Some doors I have shut a long time back. I didn’t simply shut them; I slammed some, the way only a teenager does when she is angry because her father snatched away her iPod. Some doors I struggled to close, one inch a day. A few of these doors are still left ajar, not awaiting someone’s arrival, but knowing there is nothing to hide behind closed doors.Closed doors – I think it’s easy to close the doors, to hide underneath the blanket of comfort, to pretend there is no world outside. Of late, I have realized easy is no fun at all.
I have been trying to unlock the doors I shut eons ago. The rusted latches refuse to comply. Some doors I closed a few years ago, are giving up trying to stay shut.
I look at the rooms these doors protect – mostly empty, devoid of the life they once used to hold. Was it only after the treasure was stolen that the doors were locked? Or the fear of theft made me empty the rooms? Where is the treasure now? I can barely remember.
I sit on the pile of the remaining pearls. Three empty spaces stare at me – those spaces used to hold doors once, one carved of wood, one made of iron and the third was a mere curtain, pretending to be a door.
The curtain was the first to be torn. The wooden one was broken one fine morning. And the one made of iron had disappeared into thin air on one mystical night, the way rust eats up a tiny piece of nail when left unattended for ages.
I sit on the pile of the treasure left behind – a few pearls I can count on my fingers. Yesterday, I believe, the count was more. I can barely remember.
Of late, I have realized I have left too many doors open.
