He came near a door which was painted entirely in black. The door knob was shaped like a happy cherubic child with wings, with a hint of smile on the lips and eyes almost closed.
The knob was carefully crafted and painstakingly covered with a layer of gold. There was a keyhole, exquisitely carved from silver. There were two sets of keys, which were crafted beautifully.
The head of the key resembled a monarch’s crown and had two bright red rubies on it. After marveling at the craftsmanship and the thought behind the work of art, he decides to open the door with the help of the keys.
He inserted one of the keys into the keyhole and immediately heard a mechanical tune as if there was a synergy of waves, at tandem, working to solve the puzzle set by the locksmith.
When the mechanical puzzle was solved within the lock, so skillfully crafted, there was a lovely sound, indicating the puzzle is solved and the door knob has to be turned to open the door.
He holds the doorknob and twists it to the left and the door opens to an old-fashioned cobbled stone road.
He was not expecting such a road after opening this expensive and richly crafted door. He turned back and noticed that the door on the other side was painted red, a bright red, to emphasize.
He closed the door behind him, put the keys in his pocket and marched ahead, along the road, almost thumping the laid stones, in anger.
Trudging along the old street, he notices a small, yet beautifully old-fashioned house. It was brightly painted in white and the windows were painted azure. The lawn in the front was carefully manicured.
He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He tried the simple hand-crafted door and it opened. It seemed no one had been in this house in ages, but everything was in order and not even a speck of dust.
“How can this be possible?” he stated in a quizzical voice.
“Maybe this house was waiting for the rightful occupant.” He mentioned philosophically.
Then he spots a richly crafted mahogany writing table, with a stack of fine blank white paper and array of pens, with exquisite gold nibs. There were so many ink bottles in every color of the rainbow. He was immediately drawn towards the table.
He sits on the chair and trails off in his dream world, dipping the pen in the ink bottles and conjuring up the deepest desires of the subconscious mind.
Now he does not regret taking the old cobbled street and was glad it led to his rightful dwelling. He feels at home and wants to write till he breathes his last.
Amitav Chowdhury 