I decided to spend this weekend with my aunt. This was because of many reasons. Affection, comfort, and food were the primary ones. Also, I had no plans and Mawii was busy with her cousin and the thought of staying alone in my pg, in my (short circuited) room, for forty eight hours was slightly unbearable. Oh yeah. And I wanted to see Harry Potter and my aunt's a Harry Potter fan so I thought I'd be able to persuade her to take me to see it, which I did.
Anyway. This is about what happened last night after we came home, having seen Harry Potter (Oh, Dobby). I called a friend (I need a nickname for this friend, who is fast becoming worthy-of-having-nickname-on-trisha's-awesome-blog, but I can't think of one right now. Difficult friend to nickname. Maybe for now, Friend). Anyway, so I was talking to Friend and because I get restless when I'm on the phone, I moved from my room to the verandah (my room opens onto it) and shut the door behind me.
It was cold outside so after a while I tried going back into my room. Pushed the handle down. Handle moved down. Door didn't open. Realised, with a sinking heart, I'd locked myself out.
Friend: How did you lock yourself out?
Me: I don't know! I just shut the door. It locked by itself. I don't know how it did that.
Anyway, so I banged on the other door - there's another door that connects the living room to the verandah - and yelled for my aunt who heard me (along with the rest of the neighbourhood; I found out the next day that her Man Friday came running out from his room downstairs, armed with a lathi) and let me into the house.
No problem, right?
I tried going back into my room from the living room. Turned the handle. Door didn't open. Realised (a night of revelations, it was) that I'd latched the door from the inside before going out to the verandah. What did this mean? It meant door-connecting-room-to-verandah was locked-from-the-inside, and door-connecting-same-room-to-living room was also-locked-from-the-inside.
Hastily told Friend I'd call back and went to aunt to tell her the bad news.
Aunt: Didn't you realise it's a godrej lock?
Me: What the hell is a godrej lock?
Aunt: *embarks on lengthy explanation that basically means a godrej lock is a lock that locks if the door is merely shut*
Me: Shit. I didn't know that. I DIDN'T KNOW THAT. Do you have a spare key?
Aunt: The key's inside the room.
Aunt: We'll figure it out in the morning. Sleep in the other room tonight.
Me: At least I keep your life exciting, right?
Anyway, I went back to the verandah and started examining the door. Called Friend back and explained the entire sad and sorry situation.
"The worst part is," I said, crouching in front of the door, "I can see the fucking key."
"A hairpin," said Friend. "Don't you have a hairpin?"
"Do I look like I possess hairpins?"
Silent assent from Friend who then, inspired by bad films, tells me how I could slide a newspaper under the door and jiggle the key out with, if not a hairpin, then something. The idea had already occurred to me (I didn't grow up on Enid Blyton for nothing, y'know). Went to the other room, found a pair of tweezers. Tweezers didn't go through the keyhole. Found a long, thin screwdriver. Gently placed newspaper under crack of door.
Friend advised me (quite uselessly throughout).
At first the screwdriver wouldn't move the key. Friend kept warning me to be gentle, lest I shove too hard and cause the key to fly backwards beyond the reach of newspaper. The key refused to move. I got annoyed and, ignoring Friend's advice, jammed the screwdriver into the keyhole and jiggled it vigorously. The key fell out.
But had it landed on the newspaper?
Heart pounding, I drew the newspaper carefully, oh so carefully, out from under the door. My heart sank when I didn't see the key. But then I heard a sudden clink and all of a sudden, the key was by my knee.
The key was by my knee.
The key. The key. Was by my knee.
Making triumphant noises, I picked the key up and inserted it into the door. Nothing happened. Turned the key. Nothing happened. Turned it the other way. Nothing happened.
Ran yelling to my aunt who looked at me with resignation and informed me that it was the wrong key. The godrej key, the key that could unlock it, was inside the room.
"Don't you have a spare?" I said, in despair.
"Yep," she said. "It's inside the room as well."
I looked at her.
"Listen," she told me, "I've never come across anyone who's managed to lock themselves out of that room. Most people, you see, don't tend to leave the other door locked, when they let themselves out onto the verandah and close the second door after them."
"It could happen," I said.
"Only to you. Now go to sleep," She looked thoroughly fed up with me and I couldn't blame her.
"Do you still love me?" I said timidly.
"I suppose," was her grudging reply.
Gave up then, and went to the other room, despondently plucking at my eyebrows with the tweezer. The lock, I had to admit, had won this round. I comforted myself with the thought that it wasn't any old lock that had defeated my ingenuity, but a godrej lock. It helped a little.
Today we have family coming over for lunch. This story is going to go down in the Annals of Family History as Yet Another Stupid Thing Trisha Did. Whatever. I've gotten my own revenge. This morning, when I woke up, I found my aunt managed locking herself out of her bathroom.
And anyway, all the doors were broken open this morning (by a locksmith who evidently thought we were all insane), so all the locks are now unlocked.
The (Happy) End.