Corridors

The corridor of my life welcomes this unsung tune every now and then. The playful child calls on when invited, plays and runs around. Her giggles slip in my room through the closed door. She peeps at my naked being often through the window and vanishes even before I begin to think of the pleasant intrusion. Clad in lives I have never lived, I swiftly run for the door. The glitch of the latch alerts the world and the child runs away. A vacuous alley then stares at me. Latching the door back, I shut myself in and begin to undress. The giggles resume. My hat goes off and the games ensue. With the shirt off, a complete orchestra begins to play. By the time I am nude, the crescendo is reached.

I quietly wear a life again. To catch a glimpse of the camaraderie, I tread carefully to the door. The orchestra pauses, the running around slows down. I oil the latches, twist them open without making the slightest sound and look out. Nothing ever happened. Grumbling and swearing in disgust, I take a walk till one end of the corridor only to be drowned in a fragrance that has never repeated itself. The floral sensual treat is her only trace that I have ever been able to hunt down. Unbuttoning myself on the way back, I come running to the room, pick up a pen to make a note of the nostalgic, pleasant smell. Alas! all of it evaporates by the time I turn a fresh leaf in my red notebook.

In the depths of the dreamy slumbers I remain and the games in the corridor go on. Dolls are caressed, opponents are chased, races are won. Instruments are played and whistles are blown. The mini tournament decorates the canvas of my being. I so desire to be a part of it. Avenues that I own refuse to invite me. Like obedient slaves who have no sense of any endearing attachment for their master, I am always kept at bay. “You will be served in time Sir!” they tell me sternly. The moments of our festivities never coincide. Singing to myself and dancing to tunes others have composed, my days pass by. Wish I could dance to tunes themselves. Tunes which are neither mine nor your nor his nor her. The privileges of my corridors make me jealous.

May be it is  the nakedness I wear all the time as the basic minimum that scares and shies her away. Have no sense then, of how to successfully peel this nudity off the materiality of my being.