Let the Doors Not Open…
Astonishing are those imaginations that cannot be written down in words, explained through gestures or expressed through expressions. They look beautiful when seen through a series of mind games. On the other hand I have taken up enough courage to try and pen down those vivid yet unclassified imaginations.
Being an Indian, though I have visited less places, yet I have seen many forts with large endless walls and the marbel that glorify them. I have heard multiple stories of the wars, the kings, the huge army, the defeat and the kills. Every story talks of the greatness of the empire and the highness of the emperor. I do not know why I become such curious to know of the life of the queens who lived hundreds of years ago. I feel I can so relate to something, I do not know what! I remember visiting the Agra Fort and the strong feeling I felt there cannot be explained. I felt as if I knew the place long before but the fact is I was there for the first time! I was mesmerized by every single detail (though that is no exception. Any tourist would probably fall in love with the place). But there was something I felt. Every leaf, every stone was as if not new to me. When the guide showed us the “Mina Bazar” a view quickly crossed my eyes. I could see women buying bangles, some going to buy others moving to sell, lots of chaos and amazement but the bazaar was vacant, when I returned to reality. It was no more the bazaar that used to be long long ago. As if I knew how beautiful everything was hundreds of years ago and how vacant it is now.
For those who believe in “Re-birth” might take this seriously, others would just discard thinking it to be childish. I too think it is too childish and even ashamed to elaborate this on this page. But sometimes I really get a strong gut feeling that I knew the place much much before. I knew every leaf, I knew every stone. Maybe I had been a servant or a gardener or a cook in any of the previous births and why not a queen? Maybe I was a queen whose name history has not written on it’s pages, maybe I had roamed the palace thousands of times and talked to the stones, maybe I slept in one of those big luxurious rooms, maybe I had servants to take care, maybe the king had other wives too, maybe I was left all alone. If I had been a queen (suppose for now!), was I happy? With all the graceful ornaments covering my body and gold in every corner of my room, was I happy? History did not elaborate the prisoned life of the queens. It simply rejoices victories and mourns the defeat. History did not tell my story. How I lived and roamed in that huge red-stone palace, getting lost sometimes in those thousands of indifferentiable rooms. How I lived a life of separation. How I lived behind the bars of stone.
Time has forgotten my story. I came and vanished like the “lost page of a diary”.