Journey

On the verge

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

The cacophony of relentless hammering thoughts,
Kept echoing in her delirious, confused mind.
A deluge of words, but all twisted in tight knots,
Struggling to hold on, yet breaking in a slow grind.

She wanted to frame those words in beautiful lines,
But they kept escaping her, it felt just like treason.
She wanted to evoke her faithful words sublime,
But her words were gone without any reason.

She sensed she was forgetting to remember ,
Her days were no more clearer than her nights.
With each day she felt like a dying ember,
Fleeting memories vanishing in a bright light.

The people had flocked from far and wide,
They were eager to hear her speak.
They had waited long by her ailing side,
But she could feel, her chances were bleak.

Her eyes once twinkled with abundance of life,
Those empty eyes now searched their face.
Trying to remember her own story of strife,
To reach out once more for some lost trace.

In this vast emptiness one thought kept knocking,
Remembering a voice, a promise, amidst this dilution.
Perhaps he was a lie, her memories merely mocking,
Like her tales, he was but a figment of her imagination.

She kept staring blankly, his face drifting near and far,
From this pain of oblivion, no one could give her relief.
Now so lost, but once she was a poetess, a rising star,
And in her eyes now reflected deep empty pools of grief.

Waiting people ; their impatience, their restlessness ,
She could feel it spreading through her room.
Their failed disguise, their hidden distress,
Hushed whispers of the impending gloom.

Through all the pain of incoherent loss, she waited ,
She waited for him to reach her door, one day.
Through all her struggle of remembering forever muted,
She would not know, it was her words that had pushed him away.

Crystal Gaze

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

Crystal Ball on Waves. (Philadelphia Museum of Art)

A tiny room, the walls filled with colourful motifs of flowers,
A gypsy lady sitting within, like one dwelling in her bowers.

A twinkling ray of sunshine was touching the crystal-ball,
In that twinkling light of silver, it held secrets of one and all.

Dark blue eyes fixed on the crystal-ball, she sat across me.
Time had frozen, it seemed we were part of an endless eternity.

Waiting for her gypsy blue eyes to read my life in a crystal gaze,
My story was simple and yet the crystal slowly seemed to haze.

I was there to ask the questions,but the answers I almost knew,
To hear it from a crystal-ball, that my days were left but few.

Transfixed, for long I sat in a daze , my impatience hypnotized,
She was humming ever so softly , my own name I recognized.

Which lines on my face or my sunken eyes spoke to her first,
Who betrayed my story;  to quench her curious thirst. 

I smiled and she knew, I was not there to see my destiny,
‘Ke Sera Sera’ had taught me, the future was not ours to see.

In that crystal she fixed her gaze, I saw no magic or amaze,
Hidden behind those blue eyes I saw a fire burning ablaze .

In a halting voice she went on, things I was not ready to hear,
Letting go of life’s desires , to conquer and surmount fear.

My desire to drive away lonely hours of melancholic pathos,
My desire to fill those hours with laughter, noise and chaos.

If this be my last wish, let me hold on to them till I fall apart,
Tell the crystal-ball to rewrite my story from the very start. 

My gypsy lady smiled again, a soft smile, spreading on her face,
She let me out of her spell with gentle humour and grace.

The crystal-ball was once again gaining back its shine,
Bright and clear it was ready to read between the lines.

My love for life was not a lie, but it was time for goodbyes,
In the journey of realization I walked alone without any ties.

A Beach Day

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 3 Comments

I am your beach. I have come to share my side of the story today. No, I am not mute or dead. I am alive, I live by your side everyday, waiting for you, rejoicing with you, yet you do not know me.  When you walk on my sands and sing your favourite songs , I want to sing along with you. When the lovers sitting together gaze out into the sea, I become one in their togetherness. I witness all the love stories and the heart breaks you unknowingly share with me . You are not alone when you feel sad and lonely, walking in a melancholic mood; I try to tickle your feet with my slippery sand, just to bring a smile on your lips. Yes, you do not recognize me ever, but your tears, smile, laughter, talk, stay back with me forever. And in the darkness of the night, when everyone goes back home, I bring out my precious shells and within its heart I transfer all your secrets and toss the shells back into the ocean, to stay there forgotten, forever.

Hey, let me sway the pensive mood to something more interesting. Allow me to tell you my experiences, secrets and stories. But you have to promise me that whatever I share with you today will stay “tere mere beech mein”. No spreading beach rumours around the town. Let this be our secret pact, to be beach buddies.  

I will share a secret which no one knows. We, the beaches all around the earth stay connected. We know what goes on where. We have our own network system of communication. Take the sand for example, they are such big travelers!  And while sand travels, they carry tales from one beach to the other. The deep secrets and gossips of the thrashing waves brings us news from every ocean far and wide. And the unending canopy of the sky, reflects all our emotions. We just need to look up to the sky, our messenger! 

Holidays and Sundays people rush out to spend a day on the beach. They come in big groups and small, the families with their umbrellas, towels ,music, and their noisy children. Oh, these children, though I love them the most, but they keep digging at my heart. Why do they have to carry their little shovels, buckets and start digging out my sand ? I know it is a game for them, but it hurts. And what is this craze to build these sand castles on the beach? I just do not understand. If you ask me frankly, none of them look like a castle to me. But what do I know of castles, I am just a beach, waiting to be washed back again and again into the sea.

Have you seen the beaches in Goa? Oh, you must have, they are so famous all over the world. I hear that Goa beaches are always in a party mood, how lucky are they, seeing all the tourists, excitement, and partying every single day. Some say that the Goa beaches do not sleep at night. It could be a rumour,  I am not sure. Stories of the Goan beaches sometimes makes me a little envious. But being a beach has its advantages, feelings don’t last for long. Envy, joy, sadness, no matter whatever is the emotion, the sea comes and washes it all away. Leaving the beach sparkling clean, ready for a new day, always. 

The white sand beaches of Miami, Maldives, Railay and so many other exotic foreign locations, are beautiful no doubt but they are also the naughty beaches of our clan. How easily they flirt with the bikini clad pretty women and gorgeous looking men, lying whole day on the beaches half clothed,  making the warm sand sizzling hot with their presence!  I have also heard scandalous tales of these people covering themselves fully with sand, what a sight it must be. But it is okay, I am not very flirtatious by nature. On the contrary, I have a little religious bend of mind. What with all the Gods and Goddesses being immersed in the sea round the year, my beach mentality gets a little influenced. My tolerance and patience levels are better than many other beaches that I know of. 

I think you have guessed by now, I am your amchi Mumbai beach. I love being the beach of Mumbai. Like a mother I have seen Mumbai grow around my beaches over the years. But somedays I get tired of this burden of population. I long for those clean, wide, shinning sandy beaches of Mumbai from the past. Now, when people cover every inch of my sand on a Sunday evening, I feel like screaming out for some air. They come in hoards,  they trample me, they suffocate me, they throw around their empty bottles and packets on my face. After their merry making they go back into their city lanes. In that darkness of the night , I stand alone, crying tears of pain. I wait for the sea to come, to wash me clean, all over again.  But for how long will the sea engulf your discarded load. The sea is getting choked every day. I stand silent and helpless watching the sea changing it’s colour,  turning a shade of grey darker day by day. 

Tomorrow again the sea will come to wash me clean. I will wait for you once again to come and spread your happiness in every grain of my sand. I do not want to be a lonely, lost beach on an island, far away in the middle of an ocean. I want to be with you, in this city of yours. I want to hear you talk, I want to tell you my endless stories, to watch sunsets  with you and your grandchildren. For that beautiful future together, let us pledge to take care of each other forever.

Melting

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Mountain range

The mountain peaks at dawn, glistening like a white dress,
From my perched window, it seemed to be heaven’s address;
Melting in the warmth of day, the glacier softening its snow,
Meandering along gently forward, yet none could see it flow.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart , I felt some desires
melting away, like the flowing snow!

The sun softly coloured the western sky in molten gold,
I stood transfixed seeing the hues, which the rays had unfold,
Each ray of warm crimson, slowly melting into the deep lake,
Touching the core of every ripple, till it bled red with ache.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some deep seeded
anger melting away, like a pain waiting to go!

Evening Azaan from a far away mosque filled the air around,
The praise of Allah permeating and melting ; music profound!
I turned away from the window, and walked into my room,
To light a candle at my altar, to fill it with jasmine bloom.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some greed melting
away, with the ebbing echoes by the evening light!

The melting candle at the altar, drops of wax gently pouring,
In meditative silence I waited, to feel the heart beats soaring,
Soaring into those lofty realms where the mind begs to reside,
In the lap of nature, in a world without any forceful divide.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some attachments
melting away, in that darkness of the night!

The darkness of the night indulging the sparkling stars,
From dawn to night I stood and stared into a horizon very far.
I melted with the hours and followed the day like a sage,
I learned from every spec bestowed upon earth’s endless stage.

I gazed and gazed and in my heart, I felt some pride melting
away, in that humbling silence of gratitude.

Of Evening Walks and more …

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 4 Comments

“Walk the talk” or “walk the walk” that is the quintessential  question Chalk and Cheese are dealing with these days.
Cheese loves  “walk the talk” and my business like Chalk prefers “walk the walk” , in absolute silence ! Long evening walks have become a regular routine for Chalk and Cheese in recent times. I love to talk while I walk, so much so that at times I feel I only go for the walk so that I can talk. To clear my own head, I ask the questions and I answer my own questions. I make philosophical points over simple matters and I admire everything  around me, from the tiny flowers on the grass to the hills and river banks . Yes, I chatter, I chatter ceaselessly and the vantage point being that the partner can not run away from me, and I get to pretend that he is listening ! In reality, I am in conversation with myself.

In such a scenario what does Chalk do ? After being the subject of this “walk the talk” evenings, Chalk has come out with a new strategy. I have told you before that Chalk is the smarter partner ; so he has now beaten me to my own game. He has very smartly Chalked the walk ! To put it simply, he has come out with new routes, torturous routes  (aah…the melting feet of delicate Cheese), for our evening walks. And guess what, he has succeeded in pushing Cheese into a silent zone. I walk beside him in a zombied mode, my mind racing but my feet aching, my throat parching, and the rest of the body groaning for attention. Well, he has silenced me during the walks but he cannot stop me from spreading the word here with my fellow readers!

With these well researched, longer routes and difficult terrain plans,  Chalk has started enjoying the evening walks twice as much. Like writing on the classroom black-board Chalk tells me stories of his various adventures. I am his only disciple on these lonely roads. He tells me of his Indian Military Academy days, when as a young cadet he and his course mates had to do the Golden Ring walk in the hills of Dehradun. These young men would be left in the jungles with certain coordinates  and some refreshments to find their way back , walking all through the night for more than ten hours to reach the reporting base at dawn. I hear in amazement and admiration. This most unassuming persona of my Chalk has so many layers to unfold. He is senior to me in age yet more energetic and more enthusiastic, an army man to the core. Cheese has stopped her non-stop chatter during her evening walks, it is more out of exhaustion than anything else. Cheese is learning the art of listening, her silence is rewarding her with sack full of stories.

At times we get lost navigating new routes, well as lost as one can get in residential sidewalks with Google maps on our phone. The son calls up once in a while to track us. Chalk tells him not to worry for his mother is with the ace navigator. What he says in jest is not very far from the truth. When he navigates I drive and when I chose to navigate he takes the steering,  together we have journeyed quite a bit uphill and now from the plateau of life we are enjoying the view around.

In the coming week Chalk and Cheese will be traveling  towards the east coast, we will be going to see our son’s  university city and attend his graduation programme. Next week I will come back to you my readers with the story of another walk.The walk our children will take , the proud recipients of degrees in their chosen field of interest.There will be many parents sitting in the hall with me and there will be so many of them sitting at home and seeing their children through videos and photographs. I may not know you all in person , but at some level we have a common thread , our children. I will write for the children and their parents. I will tell you every tiny detail of what I will see, through your eyes and mine, it will be my own way to “walk the talk”.

Sunshine On Sale

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 2 Comments

Every morning when I wake up the bright sunlight filtering in through the blinds make me smile. It reminds me of where I am, I don’t have slatted blinds on my window at home. I am in America and sunshine is celebrated here in a big way. This is essentially a cold country, so when the sun shines and  warmth spreads it makes people come out of their homes to soak in the sun, it gets them busy collecting sunshine. I too am loving the warm glow of sunshine on my bed.

Last Saturday was no different, I gave a lazy-hazy smile to the blinking blinds as I woke up. My dreams from the night were fading slowly as the present day, hour and moment dawned on my sleepy senses. Some fragments of last nights broken dreams were still lingering on. I was crossing the Howrah bridge in a yellow taxi to take a train to leave my city and that train was running on the Brooklyn Bridge taking me from Manhattan to Brooklyn where my daughter was waiting for me at the subway station. Oh what an utter confusion of bridges and places and people. But that is how dreams are most of the time ; memories float in easy in our dreams. All dreams make sense when we add up the cue cards. Bridges connect, they take us from one shore to another and the same bridge brings us back from where the journey began.This apparently disjointed dream made perfect sense to me. I was seeing my own journey, I was missing my daughter, compounded by all the planning from the  previous night to visit the Golden Gate Bridge came in together to bridge-up my dream.

We were all set to drive upto San Francisco city.  ‘A beautiful summer day’ I often hear people say this around me. For our Indian acclimatized body and mind cells… summer days are not essentially beautiful, they are hot and scorching days. Summer is… the heat wave people are experiencing back home in India, summer is…water scarcity, summer is…parched paddy fields, summer is… the time to stay indoors or visit cooler places. In this American summer Chalk and Cheese both shiver. Chalk has brought with him all summer shirts for sunny California,  but his Indian body needs to stay warm. He is now styling up in son’s jackets and hoodies. My  beautiful summer dresses too are still in the suitcase. There is just one way to dress up here, jeans and jacket with walking shoes. Going out for an evening walk or going out to see one of the seventh wonders of the modern world our dress code remains the same. Mark Twain had rightly said “The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco. ” Mark Twain I can shake your hand on that !

The Golden Gate Bridge is the most internationally recognized symbol of San Francisco city and the state of California. A sight which we have seen in so many movies and television shows was right there in front of our eyes. As we approached the bridge I rolled down the window and took off my glares to catch the bright orange-red colour of the painted steel with my non tinted eyes. Cycling on the bridge is a thing people do, and there were so many cyclists zipping away, it amazed me . My son informed us that he too had cycled on this bridge with his friend and that it was a tiring adventure for them.Chalk gets particularly excited about the cycling idea, he likes new challenges and I can go hiding in a closet in the name of any challenge. There are many viewing points of the bridge, depending from which side of the ocean you stand on. We crossed  the length of the bridge and drove up some winding  hilly roads to reach a breathtakingly beautiful view point.The view was spectacular and the mobile cameras came out capturing the spectacle. Golden Gate Bridge is a suspension bridge which was built in four years time and was completed in the year 1937. There stood the bridge blushing in radiant orange against a crystal blue sky, celebrating the sunshine on sale !

The Piers of San Francisco are another place of tourist interest. The piers are lined up on a long stretch of road, from Pier 1 to Pier 39. These are like huge gateways leading onto  the platforms which are supported on pillars connecting the shore into the water. Once again there were happy people all around… walking, cycling, children playing , or families just sitting on green patches .On this sunny Saturday afternoon Pier 39 was bursting with tourists. Sunshine was definitely on sale today, and people had come out of their homes from far and wide to buy and soak in all the sunshine they could possibly gather. Pier 39 of course has more to offer than sunshine alone, there are shops, restaurants, and a view of the Alcatraz and the San Francisco Bay. Alcatraz , located on an island was a U.S military prison since 1859. The prison closed down in 1963 and now the island and the prison house has opened up for visitors. We did not have any prior bookings or tickets to make the trip to Alcatraz .Chalk was more keen about this tour than Cheese. Maybe we will come back for it another day.

We had lunch at the fisherman’s wharf ( Pier 39 is one part of the fisherman’s wharf complex) and walked around the place looking into the ocean beyond. The sea food restaurants offered pocket friendly delicious sea food platters. The Cheese in me was engrossed observing people, the sun soaked gaiety, the sea lions lying lazily on huge wooden platforms, the prison island far into the sea, the sailboats in waiting ; and I completely forgot to capture these scenic beauties on my camera.The Cheese in me was melting in this happy sunshine afternoon.

Driving back home we saw the beautiful Victorian styled stand alone houses lining up the expensive streets of San Francisco. The houses here do not have name plates, so you don’t get to know if it is a Mannat or Jalsa, whether it houses a Mukesh or a Ratan. The houses here only have numbers,  they belong to the rich no doubt and the identity is held in the number games. I have filled the glass half with my melted cheese stories the other half  of the glass gets filled with the Chalky captures from Chalks camera. With a promise to come back again with more tales from Chalk and Cheese…adieu.

Maiden Over

/ sangeeta_chakladar / 6 Comments

A week into the new life, new place and Cheese continues feeling like a “pardesi girl”. I am a total ‘pardesi’ in these American surroundings and being a ‘desi’ makes me feel in tune with myself. The Bay area has many Indians and seeing them in the supermarkets, the malls, the restaurants makes me feel quite at home. I don’t miss home yet, but I am missing two important people of my life! My everyday help Kamala bai and dhobi bhaiya. I go on washing dishes, pans, karhai, karchi and keep singing ” Meri Bai nahi aai, aaj Bai nahi aai, bartan pe jum gai kai”. Yes, yes, there is this wonderful machine called dish washer but I have been made to count its disadvantages more than the advantages. As for the dhobi bhaiya replacement I am trying to make Chalk feel like an Iron-man, but clever Chalk doesn’t fall for this word play and the washed clothes are piling up in waiting. Meanwhile the mischievous son is taking polaroid shots of Chalk and Cheese in ‘ghar ke kaam’ wala action mode and displaying them all around the house. There is no deleting of certain truths and moments. Welcome to American life Chalk and Cheese!

The other day, son took us to a ‘Kirane ki dukan’ a few miles from his house. The place is called “Bharat Bazar”. I half expected an Indian flag to be swaying somewhere nearby because the place had such strong Indian vibes. But no, and why should it be so, this is not my country. Americans love flying their national flag. One look into the horizon and surely there will be a flag or two swaying in cool breeze on top of some building, some home. The stars and stripes against the blue sky looks beautiful. But my tiny heart strangely aches for some saffron, white and green. I do not feel these ‘desh-prem’ type feelings in my day-to-day life in India. Is it my romanticism alone or does this happen to most people when they are removed from their places of identity? To cut short my Cheesy moment Chalk announces, “let’s have some phuchka at Bharat Bazar”, my Bangali babu..it is ‘golgappa or panipuri ‘ here, but what’s in a name…it is filled with those desi flavours which makes us say ” ye dil maange more.”

Talking of flavours and taste something happened last Thursday. We woke up to a rainy cloud covered day and the first thought that came to our mind was ‘khichuri or khichri’. These days major part of the planning process goes around food and kitchen. And for a quintessential Bangali rainy day and kichuri are almost synonymous. Chalk and Cheese also identify themselves with ‘ khichri ke chaar yaar. dahi, papar, ghee aur achar ‘. Well, once khichuri / khichri was cooked it was time for the chaar yaar. Dear Chalk doesn’t like his ‘papar’ microwaved or deep fried, he likes to roast it on an open flame. I suppose you have guessed it already my readers…the minute he started roasting the ‘papar’ the house got filled with  smoke and the fire alarm was set off in a shrill loud and scary way. Chalk ‘ne aag laga di’, well, almost literally.  Sonny boy and mama Cheese instantly started jumping around opening doors, windows, switching on the exhaust etc.  All this while Chalk stood perfectly still and totally nonchalant. Endless cups of Darjeeling tea, Rabindra sangeet, IPL matches and that nonchalant attitude, I think Chalk has quite enjoyed his Maiden Over in America.

Playing ‘ghar-ghar’ in their new avatar Chalk and Cheese are bonding in a very different way and feeling strangely young all over again. This lovely energy of doing the unfamiliar things together is creating conversations we have not had in a long time. Back home in India we start taking home and house-work for granted, we enjoy the privilege of so many helping hands to do our daily chores. But living in a foreign country we start taking responsibility for those very chores of our everyday life. When Chalk walks upto the white board and scribbles something, a curious Cheese peeks in, it is a simple to-do list for the day. A bemused Cheese stands silently, melting in the warmth of this simple moment.

In this season of changes for Chalk and Cheese they saw their son’s transition from toy store hot wheels to another stores hot wheels. To celebrate this game changer day of our son we drove upto a Gurudwara, built on top of a hill, looking down into the valley. Amidst the absolute quiet harmony of the surroundings with the chant of “Wahe Guru”, “Wahe Guru” encompassing one and all, our hearts filled up with gratitude and love. May the ultimate master of the wheels of our destiny teach us the balance of life at every given situation. In God’s home there is no foreign land, there are no boundaries of countries, cult or culture. Chalk and Cheese are travelers today and tomorrow they will be homeward bound. In this in-between time let us collect more memorabilia than what can be filled in those suitcases.

Till the next blog, till the new places we see, till the bridges we cross, till the people we meet with their stories, alvida.

Book lovers

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It all started with this one small wish of mine, wanting to sit on that inviting chair, ‘The Chair’ in the garden and day dream. In my dream came knocking a sleepy town in the south of France where all doors were closed. I called the town, the town of ‘Closed Doors’. I kept peeping through each door to see a little more. In that state of reverie Trisha and her ‘Filter Coffee’ spilled all over my mind. And now they want to hear the story till the end! But where is the end and how far from my reach I wonder. Trisha was travelling alone and on a magical sun-set evening in a serene beach side cafe, she had met an attentive and interesting man.Yes, their friendship happened very naturally, without any effort, and they also exchanged numbers with the intention of catching up some day somewhere. It was not a “you are my latte” kind of friendship ! Coffee lovers can vouch that competing with coffee love is not too easy. Trisha must have reached back home by now and tucked away the memory of that warm evening in her magic box neatly tied with a silver ribbon. Unlike Trisha I don’t  travel alone, I travel with my people, with my words, and most of all with my readers.

Words turned into sentences and sentences into paragraphs and slowly my mind started waking up and giving each line a meaning, an image, a picture , almost like a reel. The words within became a reality more real than the one around. 

I borrowed the book for two nights and days. I knew I couldn’t finish reading it in that time. I read slow, as slow as a tortoise peeping out of its shell ! The book was a thriller and I left the story unfinished. Every story that I start does not reach its end. I learn to live with the unfinished tales of life. I learn that every sun set does not become a poem or every lark flying is not completely free. I returned home with an unfinished book on my mind and an unquenchable thirst for more and more words. A good friend came to rescue, she suggested that I dive into the  world of “The Heart Asks Pleasure First”. And yes I am now slowly drowning my senses into…heart asks pleasure first !

Words chase me no matter where I go, or is it the other way round- I keep chasing words no matter where I go. So here I was in a hotel lobby taking in its interesting decor when I saw the bookshelf. An open bookshelf, leaning against a pillar,  almost hidden from view, standing silently extending a wordless welcome to the curious travellers. I approached it tenderly, scared to ruffle the sleeping pages of the books within. My fingers ran gently over the ribs of the books till they touched “I’M TRAVELLING ALONE”. I gingerly took the book in my hand and started reading.

Filter Coffee.

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A steaming cup of filter coffee in a steel glass with a steel bowl to hold the glass, this was the ultimate of coffee love for Trisha. Her impatient fingers could not wait, she touched the hot glass with her right hand and an instinctive “ouch” came out, louder than she thought. The man sitting on the table opposite to hers looked up. She gave a self conscious half smile, and before she knew it he walked upto her table holding a glass of iced water, “dip your fingers in this glass, you will get instant relief” he said. Trisha obeyed him like a small child and then started laughing loudly at the whole situation, he joined in too with an open smile. Without invitation he pulled out the vacant chair on her table and sat down. Their Hi Hellos slowly turned into some interesting conversation. Like the mellowing evening they eased in each other’s company. Dusk was settling its ink blue sheets on the ocean’s waves. Trisha’s hot filter coffee and his iced drink knew that this hot and cold acquaintance was turning into a warm friendship. Filter coffee sure knows how to break the ice and start an unfiltered conversation.

Closed Doors.

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The doors were closed. All the doors in this little sleepy town in France were closed the day I went knocking. Perhaps they had all retired after a night filled with revelry. Perhaps they had all gone to the church together. The list of ‘perhaps’ could be endless. Yet through those closed doors I saw the people within, in my imagination. I saw them huddled around the parlour. I saw them busy in the kitchen preparing a casserole. I saw the ailing grandmother in her bed waiting for someone to enter her room. I saw the young lovers lying in bed sleeping peacefully in each other’s arm. I saw the father in his sixtees wearing a perpetual frown as he read the news paper. I saw the baby in her cot smiling at absolutely nothing. I saw the mother immersed in a book next to the cradle. These closed doors told me a hundred stories about the people living behind them in this little sleepy town. Every closed door is an assurance of life within waiting for a knock.

As I walked away from those closed doors I thought of you. Did you come knocking on my door or was it someone else. Did you wait for me on the other side or did you just walk away. Did you come to wake me up or for forever to stay. My questions will keep knocking on my door for the waiting is always endless.