Dusty, rusty, weathered, old,
Dull, weak and having many holes,
Tempered wood, weakened from core,
And I am watching- an old wooden door.
When I was a kid, this door was bitter enemy to me,
It used to hinder my liberty, my freedom,
I stared at him with feelings of animosity and irritation,
& door remained aplomb, stolid, free from any excitation.
One day I realized I can open the door,
All needed was a support to lift me,
I used a brick and opened the iron chain,
Yes, indeed the ecstasy was no less than winning a game.
I grew more, now could open it with ease,
With pride in eyes, I looked the door,
But with time that animosity was gone,
Instead I felt sorry for door, it was all alone.
I realized that, I lost my enemy,
And now it had no control on me,
But now, I was grown up and could easily understand,
The door wasn’t an enemy, in fact a protector and a friend.
I left my home, and went to a different city,
My life floated ahead calmly and smoothly,
I forgot the door and our relation,
And, was busy in solving life’s permutation.
Now again, after so many years, I get a break,
I am an old man, wrinkled skin, white hair,
Thinking of going back to my old home,
Where, in innumerous mischiefs, my childhood has grown.
I reach the home and see that door,
Old like me, weak and dusty,
I open it, with curl on my lips,
Holding a coffee mug, left out for few more sips.
I realize that the door is now my friend,
I use it as support, to cross the room,
It is a dear one, my childhood mate,
Sitting on a chair, I use to talk to that gate.
Now also that door is helping me a lot,
It shuts off cold winter breezes, stands firm in the way,
By seeing charcoal lines on it, I remind that golden times,
When the door was the notebook for my nursery rhymes.
I am alone in the house, and watching the door,
It seems the door is also happy to see me back,
I sit on the ground, close my eyes, using the door as a support,
Feeling like sitting with a friend in a resort.