I was thirty-five years younger then and felt entranced by the age-old closet within the fort. I partly felt that way because I did not stand tall enough to reach out to its door hasp.
On a mid-June afternoon when everyone was unwinding on an afternoon nap, I slipped out of my room, unnoticed. To get to the fort, I had to survive the intense summer rays, with about forty hurried footsteps in a dash out of the house. As I neared the fort, it’s shadow held me out a soothing respite from the scorching heat and piercing sun rays.
I had chosen the time for the light adventure solicitously- in the broad daylight stand dismissed, or should I say- defeated, all the mysteries and horrors of entering a decaying fort that may well have more accompanists in there besides the eerie silence. Had it been nighttime, I would’ve seen my presentiment as my fear, but in the daytime, I braved it up as my imagination.
With my first step out of the cool shade of the fort’s shadow, the darkness inside the monument made me feel like prey, a victim-to-be, of something awaiting me in there. However, the midsummer boredom made me shrug off the feeling in my bones and move forward like an excavator.
The inside became darker as I moved forward; I wasn’t carrying any light, deluded by the sun-filled day outside. I made my way up the narrow spiraling stairs making no unnecessary sound other than the carefully trodden footsteps. Was I afraid to awaken something in there or was I just trying to restrain my intrusion to working up a tight passage to get to the top?
The carved imperial entrance door where the dingy, narrow stairs concluded, was latched at the bottom, but not locked. I stooped, curving my back more than I ever did, pulling the door towards me with one hand and trying to release the latch with the other. A couple of hard pulls finally loosened the fastened latch and I gently wrenched it out of the loop. I cautiously flung open the doors for a full view of the room, lavished with fresco wall murals and ceilings with delicate glasswork intricately fitted with hand-painted pieces of wood and delightfully adorned paintings. While the exquisite expanse of the huge room, partially segregated through embellished pillars, seemed welcoming something seemed to tell me that I wasn’t supposed to be there.
I ignored the dissuading thoughts and headed towards the closet, to unravel what lay inside it. The closet being unlocked subsided the anticipation of discovering anything valuable in there. I still wanted to look into it, though, for some neglected remains of history hiding inside, perhaps.
I stacked a few bricks lying idle in a dingy corner of the room and mounted them up to serve as a pedestal to stand on for an un-obscured view. As I drew nearer to the closet the weathered limestone felt funny in my nose, a little pungent actually. I got my hands on to the rusted latch that seemed to warn me of a disappointment in finding no surprises. And in the same breath, I feared some human skulls lying in wait to stare at me. Quickly enough, I brought in logic to rescue me from my wandering thoughts- there couldn’t have been any treasure or dead remains in an unlocked cupboard all these years.
With a sudden rough thrust, the hasp- a piece of solid iron, gave away to allow invasion of whatever it was meant to fend. I felt the rust powdering my hand, smudging it with a red-orange oxide. I unfurled the window that seemed tight around the hinges and added a tint of drama with the creaking sound as the wooden panel reluctantly spread away from the hinge.
There wasn’t anything inside the cupboard. Yet, it wasn’t empty. It was filled up with the aroma of aged wood mixed with dampness, a strong odor of limestone bricks, and rather offensive smell of mustard oil. These dark-colored rough wooden shelves were laminated with a thick layer of dust that seemed to have settled in like an obtruder over the years. And there was an air of abandonment in there. My mind meandered into the past visualizing the utility of the closet, which then perhaps might have been kept locked.
I surveyed the smells, sealed in for over three hundred years; the texture of the weather-beaten yet finely handcrafted wood; the murky oil spill marks; as well as the dust that had homed inside. Languidly, I walled up the closet to the brief experience of some fresh air and dim light. I walked away from my object of curiosity, a bit dejected; at finding nothing for a keepsake for my memories.
Lazily browsing through the digital copy of the cupboard today, I now realize, I carried a keepsake with me all these years, from the closet I thought had nothing inside