The Locksmith

70 yo, male.

“So what brings you here today, young doc?” He handed me the glass of tea. Lens frosted from the steam, I lifted the glass to my lips and took the spectacles off my nose. I knew I couldn’t lie to him. He was much wiser than my colleagues thought. He wasn’t just any ordinary old man who was stubborn.

There was something about him. A side to him that people didn’t really see.

“I’m here because I was sent here by the hospital, uncle.” I decided to be honest. “I will not lie to you that I’m here because I’m a friend or that I care about you, but I’m here because I was told to follow-up on you.”

He smiled. Sitting comfortably across the small coffee table. Behind him was a portrait of him and his wife, definitely in their younger days. A 6R black and white photo framed in wood which paint had uncoated slowly over the years.

“He is difficult to manage, stubborn and refuses medication. Psychiatric therapy and intervention suggested. Requires following up.” 16/5/08

“Have you still been working, uncle?”

Tiny smile. I’m a locksmith, young doc. I make locks, I repair locks.. My life is all about locks.

“And in the process you became a lock too.” Am I right, uncle?

The smile on his face vanished. His gaze locked dead into mine, and his hands started to tremble a little. After a brief moment he turned away, not knowing where to gaze, bent over from his chair towards me. “More tea, young doc?” That would be great uncle. I like your tea. “Jasmine tea,” he replied as he poured more into my cup. “How old are you?”

I’m 28 this year. I know I’m young and inexperienced in many ways.

He chuckled. Then why are you here?

“Because I too am a locksmith. A different locksmith, and I’m just trying to help you find the keys to your own lock.”

He reclined in his chair, and sadness came into his eyes. Son, he said. Those keys are not missing. They’re gone. And no two keys are ever the same. Not even if they’re duplicated.

Who’s the key to your lock then?

Wife deceased in 1996, no contact with family or relatives since 2000.

Long, heavy, burdened sigh. It’s been a very long time since I last talked to anyone properly, he opened up cautiously. The last time I spoke to a friend or a family member was probably in the last century. I thought it would be better to stay away from people, or from the things that reminded me too much of my past.

Young doc, you have no idea how much I’ve lost over the years. How much I’ve struggled and fought for what I thought mattered to me. What would you know about these?

Senior once told me, that the infamous locksmith in the city lived on his own, in recluse. He did so after his wife was killed by burglars who broke the lock of his home, robbed her and killed her. All while he was away fixing another house’s lock.

I know that your lock was broken while you were away fixing someone else’s locks. Your treasure, your key, since then was gone. I’m truly sorry to hear about that.

Ah, that’s right, he said. There was no look of remorse or regret on his face. Still the stony expression since the start of this conversation. There are no locks that cannot be broken.

Locks were never meant to be broken, I protested. They’re meant to keep the inside from the outside.

“Then what are you doing here?” He snapped. Numb, my head hung low, hands locked interdigitally, not knowing what else to say.

I’m sorry uncle. I’m young, inexperienced, and brash.

I don’t blame you son, I’m an old lock. And old locks are always harder to open. That’s the truth. Understand this, young doc—even an empty chest has its treasure.

What’s your treasure? “Memories. Memories of what I once had but lost.”

Chronic depression, possibly manifested from post traumatic stress disorder.

That’s guilt, uncle. That’s no treasure worth keeping. A treasure worth keeping should never be locked away. You bring it out, you take it out and appreciate it; you don’t lock it away and hide it from people. Treasures don’t make you bitter, angry, or depressed. They don’t make you run away, they don’t make you cry. They don’t make you what you are right now, uncle.

For a while, I thought he held his breath. The only sound came from the ticking of the old clock on the bare wall. “What do you want?”

I want to help open your lock. A lock which hangs on the outside, that you from the inside cannot open. And I’m a locksmith, you’re the chest, the lock and the treasure.

Why would a dying man be of value to anyone? I smiled. “I’m sure you know, uncle, that every lock has its purpose and value.”

You know that I care, uncle. “I do,” he said. He paused for a moment, as if thinking. “Let me get changed. I heard the hospital has extended their clinic hours, am I right, young locksmith?”

As he got up and walked to his room, I glanced at my clock and realized it was 3 hours. Funny eh, why would I spent 3 whole hours on one man, an old man whom everyone else has given up upon?

Getting up to leave, I stole a glance at the old picture of him and his late wife. Somehow, deep within me, I suppose that was what she would want someone to do for him. To unlock the man who has spent his lifetime unlocking other locks, that in the process forgetting how he could finally unlock himself. I guess sometimes, even the master needs a disciple’s reminder. Or simpler, because every lock is worth the effort opening.

You never know what you'll see on the inside.