Sylvia Plath wrote her first tragic poem when she was 14. The poem commemorates a pastel drawing made by Plath, and accidentally smudged by her grandmother. Plath was showing the still life to her grandmother when the doorbell rang. On her way to the door, the grandmother took off her apron, tossed it on the table, accidentally sweeping the drawing and blurring bits of it.
“Feeling responsible to be answerable,” says Prajakta first up about her on-going relationship with the doorbell. What would happen if Prajakta didn’t get the door?