At 12 am, when I was about to call it a day and close my eyes; a question popped up on my mind “Why are you restless?” Before it opened the pandora box of unlimited theories and hypothesis, I got up from my bed and started stretching and running on the treadmill. After sweating for one hour, I laid down in my bed, and the moment I closed my eyes, I dozed off.

A colleague had asked me a question and after going through my posts about cities and houses and doors and windows, she announced that I am restless. I denied stating that I have always loved walking in the city. My job, as a researcher in architecture, demands me to roam and dig up stories related to urban design and houses. She then asked me if I immediately fell asleep after shutting down my devices. I didn’t tell her about the treadmill.

The next day, the question kept haunting me while I was walking to work. So to clear my head, I texted my boss saying I would be late for an hour or two, and took a detour through the older part of the cities. Walking around the gallis and chowks: discovering a house or a door always clears my mind. My mind is a great story weaver; it knits facts into fictions, past into future and life into death into several knots that I usually have to attempt at least five times to untie them all. I like to think, all of our minds are like that. Weaving stories, knitting tales and coming up with our own assumptions.

“Am I restless?” I found myself asking this question while debating whether to take the right or the left street. I, do, hate being still. I can’t stay in the moment. Always lamenting about the past or daydreaming about the future. “Why can’t I live in the present?” I asked myself again.

I love my present. I love my job, my boss, my colleagues. I love coming home to my family and my cats. I love my monthly weekend getaway. And I love my friends. I am usually happy and I don’t think I miss anything in life. Yet, I am never living in the present, especially when I am with myself.

“It seems like you’re searching for something” I was told.

I don’t know what I am yearning for. Maybe the ultimate truth of life. Perhaps a secret from the universe. Maybe, an assurance that I will be okay. Or, perhaps just plenty of closed doors. I think one of my superpowers is to stumble across closed doors. And closed doors are the prettiest. Not only do they display the patterns and the carvings well, but they also hide the dark chhelis of old houses and the stories behind them.

My mind then starts wondering about these houses and their stories – who live there, how many deaths have these houses seen, how many marriages and birthdays, where did these people come from, is their family tree traceable? Before I realize, I am usually surrounded by hundreds of questions while trying to find an answer to one.

So like always, feeling defeated, I arrived at work.

“Went off strolling again?” my boss asked when I sat down at my desk.

“Yeah, I couldn’t shake off a question,” I replied.

“What question?”

“Am I restless?”

“You do have a wandering mind.”