Watch your step. The floor is uneven, not meant for old bones. And you have to walk in the centre. They have told you this. You cannot lean against a wall to support yourself, they have said this too. If you ignore this warning, you will perish, the walls disintegrate on touch.
You do not touch the walls; you want to reach that door that beckons at the end of the passage. In each dream, they have shown you pictures of it. It is actually a fluid door, made of moving water. “A watery grave for you,” they said, and laughed.
But I know different. I will reach that door and plunge in, then surface as a lotus flower, many-petalled, attaining nirvana. A lotus flower of deep purple with a thick green stem, its petals moving out to embrace a sun I have not seen in so many years, ever since I was incarcerated in a room of bare walls and no movement. Now I have a passage, a destination, and a flower.
Poet & Author
Delhi, Delhi, India