The closed door

The landlady is clearing off the empty liqour bottles. She is swearing. There are around 30 to 40 of them.
Still she should be happy. He had been real trouble for her in the last 1-2 years. This is the last trouble he would cause her. To have to clean up his room. For the new tenants.
I met him yesterday too. In the campus. He had come to get some papers. ‘Who are you? What are you doing here?’, I asked. He laughed. ‘Sale thera number bhi aayega.’ Yes, my turn will come.
But hasn’t it already?
Because when I walk past his room now, I feel like walking past a wasteland. A wasteland with a glorious tale to tell. Once ravished by a vivacious spring. Now left for dying.
And I am the oldman left behind, sanctifying it’s last words.


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