Literary Shelf

The Door by Jayanta Mahaptara

The thing
wakes me like a hand.

Grass waits

and rock
takes the wind’s place.

Huge door
with feet of light,

my eyes
quietly open
before the night’s.

The door, what door is it? Is it a mythical door or the mystical door of Mahapatra? Is It a door of the temple or the house of his? Which door is it? Is it the door of his dreams through which he may slip into? It is also a fact that we live by dreams and our life is but a study in dreams and the moment the dream stops it we cease to be living. Life is a dream. Man is a dreamer. Isn’t it?

Maybe it that he has after seeing the rock-built temples and the fitting of wooden frames into the small-height pass-in through which devotees can enter into or exit. How to fit into the wooden doors into the rocky, we mean rock-cut entrances?

The door is the thing which wakes him like a hand. Grass waits, the rock takes the place of the wind. Huge door seems to be drifting with the feet of light. His eyes quietly open it before the night’s.

After reading the poem, some questions rake the self. What are the doors made of? From wood is the simple answer. But where do the woods come from?

The hidden meaning may be different if to mean it otherwise. How to open the closed door of the mind? What is it in mind and heart? Where the mind can go there man cannot bodily.

Think you, had there been not light, what would it have happened, had it been not the door too? It is a door which has been made through the woods of Nature.

The mind is the door of the heart.

The other thing is this that man is a part of Nature, rocks, stones and trees. Where does wood come from? Where do the trees grow on? On this earth is the answer. What is this earth composed of? Green grass, vegetation, hills, rocks, stones and trees and can we without?
Even if we enter into a stranger’s house, we while entering the house think of the door, the entry point as have to get out from the same which we cannot forget it.

How the valleys lie in between the hills? How does the rivulet flow in between the hills? How does the sun peep into the chains of hills overshadowing the areas?

What is it the connection in between the sands and the rocks and the soil? How are trees and rocks interrelated? How light and darkness? How are windows and doors?

Can the houses be without doors? If yes, how will they be?

Which is what, how to say it? Just the shapes get changing, the shapes of things. What to say it about vacant thinking and random loitering?

Everything is but a shadow, an image. Our mind is vacant. Things come to just as impressions. Things vanish out of just as impressions.

But when do the people dream it? During the day or the night? But when to close the door? During the night-time, is it not?

How to say it about the clouds hovering and hanging around? Where does the sun retreat to? How our vacant minds? How the space empty of? Had this green earth been not? Had the trees been not and the tops of it?

The door is but a motif.

How had it been the tunnels of ours? How the forts with the underground way-outs of ours? How the doors of minds? How the heart of hearts? How the mind of minds? Which is what, how of say it?

The poem is a fine example of vacant thinking and vacant reflection. Is everything left to conjectures?

Where can the dreams lead to? Where can it not tee mind go? How the doors of dreams? Where to sneak into?

Where to go? How the space of mind? How the space of Nature? How that of dreams?

Does man live by dreams? Where does the mind get lifted to? Sitting by the planks, what does he keep seeing, whose footfall does he keep awaiting?


More by :  Bijay Kant Dubey

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