A poem by Madhuri.
The door was always open
– we had no keys –
seven children scrambling, arguing, doing things in some studious fret.
– Nobody told us what our future must be.
The door was open –
pyracantha, cypress, over-growing round the porch –
More doors too were open
the boredom of school, itself an invitation
to fly on through
to somewhere –
The world said, here, the door is open
– hitch-hike, stumble into the mouths
of silly men, nothing
really stops you.
India said, the door is tall
as everything –
and looks deep, into some endless, decrepit yet shining
mansion without walls
pulling you in
Then, a surprising sequence
of different doors sat before one
onto rooms where people sat silently
on cool white steam
smiles all over themselves
And one was pulled further and further
into door after door
for the noticing –