As a kid ,we have terrific imaginations .
I , for one , used to imagine teams of small people sitting inside the radio , singing songs , playing music. Another popular thing imagined was sprouting of orange seedlings from one's ears , if one swallowed orange seeds whole (convinced by wicked cousins , no doubt). Then , of course , came demons and ghosts and spirits and all other things that go bump in the night . Specially when one is lying wide awake , in the bed , long after your sibling has started snoring in the neighbouring bed .
A garden shed on my grandpa's property had an ancient , weatherbeaten door , made of crude wood . There were black fungus(or blackened , dried moss) streaks on the door. The rest of the door bleached white by sun .
It held endless fascination for me . The black streaks followed the grain of the wood , mostly . Occasionally they didn't . It would turn into a procession of a king , riding an elephant, with lot of subjects following, on foot. The elephant even had a "howdah", complete with a fly-whisk wielder and mahout . Sometimes , it would be a house on fire , with people running helter-skelter , calling for help. At others , it was a parade of pretty models , wearing stilettos and flouncy gowns , holding Chinese paper fans , with elaborate , feathered head-dresses.
That door was a source of endless joy to me , and chagrin to the rest . "There she goes , staring at the damn door ".
Cousins would come , stare , cock their heads , and tried , patiently , to hear me . All they could see was a door in need of paint .
One spiteful summer , someone actually painted it , a dark , ugly , shiny brown . I stopped staring at it , and people stopped whispering at my back.
I , for one , used to imagine teams of small people sitting inside the radio , singing songs , playing music. Another popular thing imagined was sprouting of orange seedlings from one's ears , if one swallowed orange seeds whole (convinced by wicked cousins , no doubt). Then , of course , came demons and ghosts and spirits and all other things that go bump in the night . Specially when one is lying wide awake , in the bed , long after your sibling has started snoring in the neighbouring bed .
A garden shed on my grandpa's property had an ancient , weatherbeaten door , made of crude wood . There were black fungus(or blackened , dried moss) streaks on the door. The rest of the door bleached white by sun .
It held endless fascination for me . The black streaks followed the grain of the wood , mostly . Occasionally they didn't . It would turn into a procession of a king , riding an elephant, with lot of subjects following, on foot. The elephant even had a "howdah", complete with a fly-whisk wielder and mahout . Sometimes , it would be a house on fire , with people running helter-skelter , calling for help. At others , it was a parade of pretty models , wearing stilettos and flouncy gowns , holding Chinese paper fans , with elaborate , feathered head-dresses.
That door was a source of endless joy to me , and chagrin to the rest . "There she goes , staring at the damn door ".
Cousins would come , stare , cock their heads , and tried , patiently , to hear me . All they could see was a door in need of paint .
One spiteful summer , someone actually painted it , a dark , ugly , shiny brown . I stopped staring at it , and people stopped whispering at my back.
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