The Storeroom Sneeze and the Blue Door of Permission

Summary: Nira finds a talking umbrella, falls through a magical trunk, and finally stands courageously before a blue door trapped in strange bureaucratic rules.

The day I discovered Ulto-Pulto-Lok, I had been sentenced to clean Grandmother’s storeroom. At exactly nine in the morning, Mother announced the verdict in such a calm voice that she sounded like a judge who had already heard and rejected every one of my appeals.

“You have been searching for your blue mathematics notebook for six days,” Mother said. “Perhaps it is hiding in the storeroom with all your other lost civilisations.”

I protested that civilisations were generally buried beneath deserts, not behind jars of pickle. Mother did not reply. She simply placed a broom in my hand. At that very moment, the debate was officially over.

Grandmother’s storeroom carried a mixture of smells: old paper, dried chillies, brass-cleaning powder and the faint sweetness of festival sweets eaten many years ago. Inside stood three broken chairs, a harmonium that coughed instead of singing, Great-Grandfather’s old trunk with iron-covered corners, nineteen empty sweet boxes that Grandmother considered historically important, and an old red umbrella leaning in a dark corner.

The moment I touched the umbrella, it sneezed loudly.

“Mind your fingers,” it said.

Startled, I dropped it.

Still lying on the floor, it added, “Mind my ribs as well. People think umbrellas have no feelings simply because we open so easily.”

“You can talk!” I exclaimed.

“And you can repeat information that is already visible,” it replied. “We both have different talents.”

The umbrella introduced himself as Chhataram. According to him, he had once been the Royal Weather Adviser to the Kingdom of Clouds. Later, he resigned from the post because clouds never followed advice. Thunder, he said, refused to read official memoranda, rain arrived late for meetings, and the wind declined to sign the attendance register.

“Where is my mathematics notebook?” I asked.

“How should I know?” Chhataram replied. “I am an expert in precipitation, not multiplication.”

Before I could ask him anything more, a knocking sound came from inside Great-Grandfather’s trunk.

Knock-knock.

“Who is there?” I asked.

A muffled voice answered from inside, “Permission.”

“Permission who?”

“Permission to come out.”

The lid of the trunk opened half an inch. Through the narrow gap, a shining brass doorknob peeped out like a suspicious eye.

“Are you Nira Sen?” it asked.

“Why?”

“I cannot tell you the reason until you confirm that you are Nira Sen.”

“I am Nira Sen.”

“Can you prove it?”

I showed it my school identity card. The doorknob examined the photograph with the seriousness of an officer judging an important government case.

“This girl has two plaits.”

“I cut my hair last month.”

“Then you are no longer identical to your identity.”

Before I could begin arguing, the trunk gave an enormous yawn. Chhataram, the doorknob and I rolled over its edge and fell inside.

We began descending through a long tunnel. Floating commas, runaway slippers and teaspoons announcing railway departures surrounded us. A cloud overtook us from the left without giving any signal. A disappointed potato floated past, muttering that it had trained throughout its life to become a samosa, but had instead been appointed to a vegetable curry. Farther below, an invisible orchestra played half a tune and suddenly forgot why it had begun playing.

At last, we landed before an enormous blue door standing in the middle of a mustard field. Waves of yellow flowers spread in every direction. Bees buzzed over their heads, while white clouds moved across the distant sky like slow boats.

Yet the door had no wall around it, no house and not even a reasonable explanation for standing there. Its blue paint had peeled away in several places, revealing the old wood underneath. The brass handle, however, shone as though someone secretly polished it every morning.

A colourful signboard hung upon the door:

DEPARTMENT OF ENTRY INTO ULTO-PULTO-LOKOPEN ON ALL DAYS THAT DO NOT END IN “DAY”

Beside the door, behind a table, sat a mongoose wearing a white coat. His spectacles were tied to his ears with red thread. So many forms had accumulated on his desk that nothing except his nose and his official stamp could be seen clearly.

He asked, “Purpose of visit?”

“Accidental falling,” I said.

The mongoose replied, “There is no category for accidental falling. We have deliberate falling, ceremonial falling and falling for agricultural purposes.”

“What happens if I choose the wrong category?”

“You will be promoted to another queue.”

There were seven queues in front of the table. But nobody stood in them, because each queue was waiting for permission to begin.

The mongoose introduced himself as Assistant Deputy Temporary Door Inspector Mangaldas. He handed me Form 99-U. It was an application seeking permission to apply for permission.

“Attach two copies of your shadow,” he instructed.

“My shadow is attached to me,” I said.

“Then detach it.”

“What if I cannot?”

“Submit a declaration explaining why you failed to submit an explanation regarding your inability to detach the object that was required to be attached.”

Chhataram leaned close to my ear and whispered, “The weather today is excellent for rebellion.”