I am no photographer. We’ve got that out of the way. However, I do admire how some people take to photography like fish to water. And I’m not talking about the ones who know how to use Photoshop and the likes well. It’s beyond my comprehension how some people can take an absolutely amazing picture without having to present it to a software and touch it up. For me, a picture could be either a naturally beautiful woman or a woman tried to be made beautiful by applying too much make up. Now, we all know how that goes. So, for those people who can’t capture beauty naturally, there is make-up…err…Instagram! It’s a beautiful way to conceal your average skills of sorry photography. At least mine.

So, when I was in Jaipur armed with a camera and unarmed with photography skills, I saw a door. Then I saw another door. And another one. Somehow, the doors in Rajasthan fascinated me no end. They’re the manifestation of the ones I have described in my poetry. So, while I still come up with an appropriate verse for the doors, here’s what one looked like.

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I sincerely believe that if I pushed that door and went through, I would find a dark, dusty room with empty vessels lying forgotten. I’d find the remains of what would have been a cot. Withered snake-like coir ropes and faded walls would be best friends having spent so much time together. There would be the suffusion of stories told in those that room, only you can’t clearly hear them now. You’d have to go to the other side to hear what was said. And I believe that it would be damp, but it would feel warm in there. There is a poem behind that door, one that I didn’t see. One that I imagined.