Delhi: God knows what it is about me and doors. I seldom allow myself to be defeated or even alarmed by such mechanical realities of life. But doors have always been, and I suspect will be my Waterloo.

Here I am sitting in the tiny vestibule of a Bed & Breakfast in Carrara. As Bed & Breakfasts go, this one is nice. Quiet, dainty and basic. How basic I discover when I enter my attic room which is now tarted up with skylights, that can be opened with the press of a switch, and a power shower. But no soap, CNN or internet. All of which can be dealt with quite simply if I could just get past the door. This one is a double door. Tall as befitting an old house in the Historic Centre of Carrara in Italy. This is the town Michelangelo came to buy his marble blocks from. The doors have latches none of which is used any more. Instead it has a click lock and it remains stubbornly closed no matter how much I twist and turn it.

And I sit here waiting for someone to come and open the door, I think of the doors that have caused in me a myriad of emotions. The door I hid behind after a childish crime of some magnitude. I do not remember the crime itself, but I do with a vivid clarity recall the pounding heart and the dryness in my mouth as I slid between the narrow space between a door and a wall till my misdemeanour was discovered. I was quite easily brought forth from my hiding place, but the look of terror on my face must have made my parents laugh. But I never forgave the door.

Another time while staying in a friend's home in Washington DC, I was given the newly decorated suite of rooms in the basement. Everything was perfect except the house owner had forgotten about the flooding in the basement in the spring and since the rooms had been fixed thereafter, he hadn't known about the bathroom door. Or, that it jammed.

So there I was replete after an enormous dinner of spare ribs, Margaritas and a bucket of ice cream, singing loudly in my bath till it was time to emerge? And the door wouldn't budge.

I banged on the door and in desperation on the ceiling with the toilet brush  and all the while contemplated on Plan B. Sleep on the bathroom floor; it was carpeted and had many thick fluffy towels till someone came looking for me next morning.

My friend heard the thud-thud and came down. Eventually it took three people and an axe to rescue me. And so here in Carrara as I watch, someone opens the door with a casual flick of the wrist. One little left turn?
Doors, I think. They will always make me feel a fool. A moronic fool at that!