I grew up in the age of doorbells,
and though the one on the door a simple one,
it tells me who who comes through before I open the door,

The single, heavy one, around seven everyday, is dad, always followed by scurrying of feet as my brother and I raced to get the door.

My mother has two short rings before the jangle of keys.
(but if you have the keys, why would you make me get up, I whine)

The laundry service used to have one sombre ring, but the twenty something boy who delivers prefers a quick careless click of the button these days. (He tries a lot to underplay the smile when mum slips him chocolate.)

My friends , their ring rings on my phone as I'm imperiously commanded downstairs and out. But when they do bother to come up, it's always more than one and loud and demanding and leaks laughter through the door.

The next door lady always holds the button down too long, annoying my dad.

And, when my five year old cousin visits, too short to reach, he hops, launches and smashes his fist on the button, just like the oven dings.

My  brother presses down on it thrice when he comes through, all confident like a newly minted teen.

My younger uncles keep ringing till I open the door with a scowl as they muss my hair but the fake smiles are reserved for older aunts with their prim little tings and incessant cheek pats.

The boy downstairs rings only once, all awkward even through smiles.

Mausi, our help, tells me to hurry up and open up with scolding voices and smiling eyes.

I wait eagerly for doorbells.
The little guessing game is fun.
Especially when I'm studying and have no time.
But now as I write this, I can't, for the love of god, recall what the bell, when I ring it, sounds like.