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In his shoes.

Read it on my TOI blog : Freeze Frame

 

I know now how he felt, all those years ago, when he looked up at the brick and mortar carcass that was slowly, day by day, taking the shape of his dreams. Now I know, because I find myself in his shoes.

Those were the days when he had less gray hair and generally more hair, toured the North Eastern parts of the country extensively on work, smoked cigarettes virtually non-stop and blew rings of smoke lazily into the air, much to the glee of my sister and me; those were the days when he had only one good reason to visit a by lane tucked away behind a labyrinth of lanes off the boi para of College Street – an old, dilapidated house that had been razed to the ground and a new house was slowly raising its head from the rubble much like the proverbial phoenix rising from the ashes of the past. This was our house. The house he was building.

I used to accompany him on many of his weekend trips to what would one day become our house, clutching on to his big finger as I hopped and ran to match my seven year old steps with his leonine strides. As we got closer to the house his steps would quicken. Finally, he would pick me up and cover the last two or three turns of the alleys that lay between us and the house, at a pace that I could not keep up with. Once there, he would turn into a very different person – almost like an impatient child who would overflowing with questions about his new toy. I remember him tugging at the iron rods clumped together to form the core of the pillars of the foundation (to check their strength, perhaps?); watched him as he ran his fingers through the cracks that had emerged on the freshly plastered walls with a look of disappointment writ large on his face; remember him peering closely at the veneer on the freshly polished doors and windows; and always remember asking myself why he chose to do so. Our visits were filled with many technical questions that I knew nothing about: slopes, inclines, thickness of the walls and strength; but behind all of these questions, the one question that I could sense was uppermost in his mind was the one I rarely heard him ask: “When will all this chaos be over and when will we get to move in?”

Our house stands tall today, with its balconies on the south face overlooking a park; the broad bay windows that let in the first rays of the morning sun standing tall and proud; and a big terrace and a narrow strip of land at the back dotted with his favourite plants and flowers. Today, my father lives with my mother in that house still, long after his two daughters, my sister and I, moved out in pursuit of our own lives.

And as our apartment is under renovation, I find myself in his shoes today. In the last four months not a day has gone by without me poking around the rubble amongst the broken walls, pile of bricks, bags of cement and stacks of plyboard. I stand there and gaze at the gaping holes that were once walls and see doors that I had so far dreamt about, look up at the cavern which used to sport a false ceiling that has been replaced with rafters, and Italian marble floors, which I believe would be better suited in hardwood. On one occasion, not so long ago, I remember the Bee and I didn’t talk to each other for three days because we could not agree on the colour of the walls in the study, he wanted a brooding midnight blue and I wanted a rusty red. On the fourth day we decided we both preferred Olive Green…

Now a lot of ground has been covered and the walls are getting their first coat of paint. I was there even today and passing by a mirror thought I caught a glimpse of my father even as I ran my hand over the fresh coat of paint, pointed out a few cracks to the masons, irritated the life out of the carpenter by asking far too many questions about the louvers I wanted and added some ‘innovative’ improvements to the bookcase they had already finished. I came away happy that my dream is slowly turning into reality.

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Probasinir pujo

Read this post on the special event page on PreeOccupied‘s Beyond the Five Days of  Durga Puja

Image courtsey : http://bit.ly/9OIeSv

The golden sun is back in the azure sky,  casting longer shadows before disappearing on the horizon earlier than usual and the listless fleet of clouds lazily floats around, empty of their carriage. My window has a visitor every afternoon, who comes to play with my curtains and the wind chime and flirts with the nippy wind, a dragonfly. I find myself in Sharat again in my exile, in Pawrobas, in another’s land, waiting with bated breath for those five magical golden days of Anandamoyee‘s descent upon mother Earth, among us Bengali mortals.

Watching the long rays of the sun casting a spell upon the dragonfly, a desire arises to return to the golden afternoons of yore, when I would, in my careless days of girlhood, find joy in the pages of the new Pujabarshiki, a collection of novels, stories, poems by the leading literati of Bengal, published about a month ahead of the festival.

Those would be in the days that preceded the days marked in red on the calender as the days of Durga Pujo. In between drowning in and surfacing from the Pujabarshiki, I would flit between rooms, touching the softness of my grandma’s Gawrod, admire yards of my mother’s swishing tussar, swoon over her crisp Tants and Dhakais, try on her new slippers and yearn to grow into them, smell her new perfumes, try on her new nail paint. All this while two neat piles of crisp, new clothes and two Pandora’s boxes awaited to be handed out to us, my sister and I, on the morning of Shashti. Those boxes would remain a well kept secret till then. And when we did open them in all our girlhood eagerness, out would tumble things that the two little girls wished and prayed for, to transform into grown-ups for those five magical days.

The hneshel, or the family kitchen would be a buzzing bee-hive, my grandmother would already be filling up her korir boyam or ceramic jars of all shapes and sizes with various forms of delicacies – gawja, , kucho nimki, labanga latika, dalmut, pnaraki and sandeshes of various flavours and designs, for all those who would visit us during the festive days with or without a reason. A month had already gone in the ritual of exchanging Ruli, sindoor and alta among the much married womenfolk. The drum rolls on the dhak would start in the little hearts already when my grandfather would spend the Shashthi morning counting crisp new notes of small denomination and set them aside, with my grandma, to be handed over to the his brigade of grand children of all shapes and sizes.

But a score and a few years later, the known boundaries had suddenly changed into the unknown, the accepted norms and rituals had become distant as I found myself in another’s land, in pawrobas. That year, on a fine Sharat morning, there I was with tears streaming down my cheeks, sitting amidst a pile of photographs, some coloured, some black and white, full of smiling faces, stolen moments, frozen loving glances from the life that had gone by Festivity was once again in the air and the sun was sharp and golden in the heart of the Bong ghetto in the South of Delhi.

It was Shashthi, on that day of Sharat in 1998 and a pot of  Shiuli was in full bloom in Roy Mashima’s balcony next door. It was Durga Pujo in the Bong ghetto, in Chittaranjan Park but it was business as usual for the rest of the city. This Bangalini, in her Pawrobas was yearning for home. It was my first Durga Puja away from Kolkata and away from my loved ones and it seemed as if the world had come to an end. To make things a little more difficult the Bee had left for a short trip the previous evening with a promise to return on Saptami. A box had arrived by courier that morning, neatly wrapped in brown paper which lay unopened, my new silks, tussars and dhakais lay strewn on the bed, crying for my attention and DD2 Bangla blared away with a live telecast of Kolkata Durga Puja Porikroma.

And then as if to answer my prayer, the telephone rang and my mother’s soft voice asked me, “Have you received the brown paper box as yet?” Realisation dawned and a long conversation later I happily returned to the unopened Pandora’s box, revisiting the wonders of my girlhood again. And among all things womanly and festive lay the edition of that year’s Pujabarshiki.

The Bee too decided to return an evening earlier, just to surprise the grief-stricken Probasini and to make her Pujo with him a memorable one, in Pawrobas.

 

On cloud 32 in Maximum City

It was a late afternoon in June. The white Honda Civic was waiting for us at the lobby. R and I were supposed to take the car and reach Bandra West . At “4:30, sharp!” – was what the Bee (the British punctuality bug personified) had left us with in the morning.

It had been 7-days since we had arrived in Mumbai. The Bee’s new company had put us up at a lavish apartment, with the bedrooms and the drawing-room opening into balconies overlooking the Worli Seaface. Monsoon had just set in, so while the Bee was away, the sky, the Arabian Sea and its lashing waves kept R and me busy. I also tried to effectively engage the brat in some writing and arithmetic to cork her young greys cells from rusting with excessive televiewing.

This particular day was the first day of our house hunting in Mumbai (and no, we hadn’t fussed at all about shubh muhurat, tithi, nakhshtra – but coming to think of it now, may be we should have!).

The Bee, who had better knowledge about Mumbai (having been in and out of the city on countless occasions) ruled out the possibility of living in town (hold on!) if we didn’t like anything decent between Napeansea Road and Mahalaxmi or stretching it a little more, in Worli. Also out was living in a suburb like Chembur, which “is literally closer to Pune than Mumbai”. So we pinned our hopes on Bandra West and Pali Hill.

That afternoon, riding through the happy by lanes of Bandra, I felt more and more at home – like I had on my earlier visits. The bustling restaurants, rocking pubs, neat rows of haute couture outlets and designer galleries with a healthy sprinkling of art galleries and theatres – all  amply hinted at a  “hep & happening” suburban life and promised a robust social life. The sights, smells, sounds of Bandra had me spiralling downwards in love already, now I fell in love with the windows, balconies, doorways of Bandra as well. I made mental notes of names of apartment stories –  to urge the real estate broker to fetch us one.

The car halted bringing my daze back to consciousness. Our first stop for the evening was ‘Sunflower building’, the wiry broker in a much worn shirt and trouser and a worldly-wise smile told us. I had already started to walk into the large-ish wrought iron gate with a uniformed gate man whose hand was also in mid-air in a salute to greet me.

“Madam, this way please.” The hand in mid-air dropped back to its earlier position of guarding the gates from intruders as I gazed past the gate into an innocuous alley. The apology to a sunflower, Sunflower (building) stood hidden from sunlight (permanently) in a dark alley between two large condominiums. Have you heard the sound of your hopes crashing around you like broken glass? Well, I’m sure everybody standing around me that day did! The three of us looked in utter disbelief at each other and then in unison at the broker.

The Channel V “brought to you Bai”, oops, the  wiry, worldly-wise broker couldn’t have hurled the reality back at us any better than “Itna paise me itnaich milega!”

Suddenly the multinational HRA seemed a pittance and we rode  on the fastest slide down from feeling  “upper middle class NRIs” to “lower middle class Mumbaikars” in the shortest span of time.

Yeh pahela wala haiNaya TDR building, niche char mala bangla tha, upar se pillar dal ke bara mal banaya pichhlasaal”

“Are rest of the buildings you are showing us today the same?’ I dared to ask.

Itna paise me aisaich milega.”

“Pali Hill?’

Itna paise me aisaich milega.”

By the time evening came to an end we had wizened with the ways of the Maximum City:

We could, with the HRA we were proud of only a day ago, live in a 850 sq. ft flat in Bandra, or a TDR building, or in rundown apartments assigned to MPs in Worli!

Living in South Mumbai, that is between Cuff Parade and Malabar Hills meant paying a rent of anything between 3 lakhs and 5 lakhs. “CEO log bahut raheta udhar?”

The rentals seemed to dip slightly between Mahalaxmi and Prabhadevi – a “reasonable hai” amount between 2.5 lakhs and 3.5 lakhs. That takes one to Bandra, and Bandra being Bandra was hopeful to fetch anything between 1.5 lakhs and 3 lakhs depending on the super built up area, not the carpet area!

By the time we reached the outer perimeter of Khar and almost crossed into Santacruz, the rentals seemed to have come within the outer fringes of the HRA. So why not Khar?

Khar had wonderful houses with an old worldly charm, renowned neighbourhood schools, a brimming Sindhi population and … erm … and thus vegetarian housing societies (!) where a whiff of anything that moved before it got cooked called for an eviction notice.

And we didn’t want to chase the goose down the Western Express highway from Santacruz past JVPD all the way to Andheri, Goregaon, Kandivili. So we switched expressways and started looking in Chembur, along the Eastern express highway. Between Worli and Chembur? No!

Chembur – the heartland of Tamilians in Mumbai. Green, quiet, some predominant Sindhi societies but also some good old Bangali societies (so we could have continued being carnivores), it promised fish markets selling Bangali fish and “true blue” Bangali vegetables like “Mocha” and “Thor” – so why did we move away from Chembur? The neighbourhood boasted of a fine educational institution which shut its window on my face (literally!) after bawling out a tirade of “no admissions available now!”.

And ever since that seemed to predominate our search. Looking for a school before we found a house. “But what will happen if we do secure the admission in a decent school and do not get a decent accommodation in the vicinity?”, we wondered aloud – the egg and chicken game was in play already.

I admit that we were also difficult to please. We wanted a 3 BHK of 1700 sq. ft, preferably on a higher floor, balconies, good view outside the window and not shanties, preferably in a new building, a big lift for the packers to deliver our belongings (which lay sealed in a container on the other shore of the Arabian Sea, waiting for an address) with ease and least damage.

And we made unreasonable demands – walking into a house fitted with wardrobes, we wanted them removed to fit in ours, in a house that had purple and yellow “designer” walls we demanded pearly white walls, a house that came complete with bare CFLs jutting out from sockets in ceilings and walls we wanted them to be covered with shades, we wanted our paintings up on bare walls, in short “sonar pathorbati” – loosely meaning a marble bowl of gold. Baffling!

A little over a month into this quest for the Holy Grail, we came to a new turn, the 2000 sq. ft guesthouse on the 12th floor facing the Arabian Sea, very politely pointed out that our stay was nearing its expiry, the company only stipulated for a month. In most cases, they also pointed out, the employees find a house, car and school in this one month. We were sure that this held true for simpler folks with simpler demands…

On one of those days, riding through a busy street in town, the nomadic life seemed unbearable. I wanted to be there, in the midst of life, where there was so much happening – Kala Ghoda, Fort, Colaba, Leopold, Sterling, Tea Centre,  – I wanted it all. We were approaching the Mahalaxmi Race Course by then, a steel and glass tower showered fire from a welder and I looked skyward in an earnest prayer, wishing for the impossible to happen in Maximum City. I desired for a home nestled in the clouds, overlooking a wide expanse of water, with enough space to hold us along with our tables, chairs, sofas, beds, pots, pans, books and greens. To this absurd wish list I added the wishes of a decent neighbourhood, a good school for R, a park, a promise of ‘life worth living’  with enough shopping and dining (hmmm…) a corner bookshop and of course a respectable gentry, phooof!

And one of those days, after the packers had left, the dust had settled and I had sent the Li’l R off to her school, I finally put my feet up and sipped my coffee. Then it struck me! We had landed ourselves a 32nd floor perch, an enviable address, with a wonderful view of the lakes in the hills (of course one has to crane the neck out at a 33 degrees angle from the extreme right hand corner of the drawing-room french window) and a handful of shopping and dining. But in my impossible list which was just made possible (by some universal conspiracy) I had forgotten to mention two essential elements of everyday life  – “a house in town” which was “near work”! Silly me! How I wish I  had wished with a little more foresight!

 
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Posted by on August 26, 2009 in city, humor, Mumbai, Summer, window

 

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Oh, Kolkata!

“In all chaos there is a cosmos, in all disorder a secret order.”- Carl Jung

It was not so long ago that I was following a conversation about Kolkata between a writer and a traveller friend of his. As it is, I always enjoy listening to people talking about my city. But this time it was not such a pleasant experience. The traveller, an NRI from a bustling metropolis, shared his harrowing tales about Kolkata when he  made his way home through the city. In his words Kolkata was no more than a dead city – disorganized, desultory and deluged by people from all corners of the globe.

It  left me somewhat disconcerted. I searched for words, for impressions to defend Kolkata. But nothing came to me – no riposte, no denial, not even a sigh. For a long time I  felt nothing.  Was I sad? Was I angry? Was I  disappointed? Was a part of me silent in resignation?  Why was there a void? Why wasn’t I up in arms defending a city so dear to me? For a long time I didn’t know why I didn’t want to react.

And today as I sat  absorbed in a listless afternoon, waiting for the calm to lift, waiting for a breeze to lift my spirits, waiting for the vagrant clouds to thicken and  darken again, for lightning to strike and  the sky to rage with the gathering storm, it came to me.  I realized my affection for Kolkata ran too deep to be impelled to lash out, to be provoked by comments made by somebody who happened to be passing through Kolkata at the wrong time of the year.

I presume  that to understand and love Kolkata, or any other aging city in the world, one has to  accept that  decay and  chaos are  integral to an old city. And having accepted the crumbling city, look deeper into the soul, search for its music, map its streets, taste its spirit, trust its people and love it in spite of its faults. Having thus resolved the storm within, memories of my home, my city, my Kolkata came to soothe me like the rain.  I was not fighting a battle anymore , only reminiscing about my Kolkata and why I love her so.

My memory of Mahantaji and his brotherhood of monks in my first school, a Buddhist missionary institution tucked away in the middle of the Chine Para, the Irish convent I graduated to in the heart of  Anglo Para, wandering through meandering by-lanes, discovering  new alleys on longer summer afternoons, walking home through alleys that have been denied the invasion of daylight – was growing up with Kolkata.  Climbing over walls to invade the neighbour’s terrace to visit a friend, the songs I learnt to hum because our neighbour loved to listen to his radio loud, watching the same people exiting the same rundown doors forever,  the parar Durga Pujo, the para cricket, the adda at street corners or in our baithak-khana  – was being a part of the Central Kolkata lane where I grew up. The boi para, the neighbourhood theatre that  ran only old Bangla classics, the eroding facades of mansions echoing their former glory hidden at every bend of each lane, extravagant lattices, wooden shutters on arched windows, elaborate balconies – these and many more gems strewn at nooks and corners of a Kolkata urging to love.  Getting wet under the open sky on an open terrace on a rainy afternoon, watching  colourful kites flying in the lazy summer wind, lying on my back on the terrace and counting  stars with my sister on a clear autumn night, the Palash that awaited me every spring with its flame coloured flowers ouside my college gates or just waiting for the Kaal Baishakhi after a scorching day – was a Kolkata that made me a dreamer.

Another Kolkata also remains embedded in my memory.  A Kolkata of poets, painters, story-tellers, singers, of thinkers – people who make Kolkata proud, a Kolkata that was a distant dream in my youth but which never made me feel isolated. I was very much a part of the same Kolkata,  very much absorbed in this artistic abundance.

And inspite of the undying spirit of this city of palaces and shanties, bridges and temples, trams and metro rails – to most  Kolkata remains a dying city, beyond any hope and beyond any repair. Kolkata, the  city which like a stubborn child has refused to change with the changing times. The city that continues to draw ire from us, and other out-of-towners, scornfully thumbing its nose at all as it digs in its heels deeper and refuses to mutate.

It is this one thing, this reluctance to change too much too soon, the resistance to molt and obscure the past that keeps me going back to Kolkata. My Kolkata   remains just the way I had left it on a sultry afternoon, in June, eleven years ago.  To me seeing the same roads, the same people, the same buildings, the same careless beauty – brings back a sense of belonging, to a city stuck in a time warp. The faded photographs in a torn album, the nooks and corners of the streets I have traversed for as long as I can remember; the smells that have forever stirred the same memories in me, all  resonate a sense of  homecoming for the soul in search of roots.   Kolkata has always allowed me to remain myself, has compelled me to retain my identity. Like Kolkata doesn’t feel the need to change for anybody and unlike most of the other cities that I have either visited or lived in,  Kolkata doesn’t compel me to concur with the change outside .

sepia door1

An old door in my neighbourhood, waiting for a breath of fresh air….

sepia mkt

The lone tower of Kolkata Corporation Coin Museum, on College Street (Bidhan Sarani), after the rest of the market was demolished.

sepia balcony

A balcony from my past.

India Counts

 
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Posted by on August 13, 2009 in Calcutta, city, Kolkata, Memories, Romance

 

Of suburban dreams and a birthday…..

The road crosses the intersection and slopes down towards the sleepier part of the suburb, leaving behind the rushing traffic, the departmental store, the new apartments and the quaint restaurant at the corner with a breakfast menu. Yesterday we, the Bee and me, sat by the french window of the restaurant dreaming our usual dream of “higher aspirations” over tall cups of  “Long Americana” and breakfast, higher floors, higher purposes, higher goals et all.

It was shortly after the ‘rush to reach town’ had ebbed, so the intersection was quieter. The broad, empty stretches of the sidewalk, the sleepy suburb slowly waking up to the day, the rainwashed trees starting to glisten in the sun stealing in through the chinks of the sparse clouds…. I wanted that moment to stand still forever, wanted to go on sipping the fresh coffee forever, wanted to sit with the Bee and go on dreaming forever, wanted to just sit at that table by the window and stare  outside forever. It was the morning of my day and I wanted to soak in all that was around me and delay the day from ending quickly.

The reverie was halted abruptly, a call was buzzing silently for me on my phone. I could have ignored the phone, but not this call.

“Feels like yesterday, when you were looking at me with those new eyes as I held you for the first time and here I’m wishing you on your birthday again!” effused the most familiar voice of my life, my Ma. “Happy Birthday!”

The same day in the afternoon I walked down another road of the same suburb leading to another intersection. This intersection at this time of the day remained chaotic. As I waited among the milieu of mothers, fathers, grandparents, drivers, maids of all shapes and sizes waiting for the children to run out, a soft tug at my hand made me turn. She stood there  with an angelic smile lighting up her eyes. There lay on her little outstretched hand a birthday card, made with pages torn from her exercise book, with red and pink hearts, a tiny poem and “Dear Mumpa, happy birthday!” written in it.

Calla-Green-White-feat

The evening brought a drizzle, a cake with a single candle, a group of friends, a bundle of wishes and a much delayed ending to the day.

 
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Posted by on July 29, 2009 in city, Life, Love

 

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Gali ke mod pe suna sa koi darwaza…

There was a gentle rain falling outside. The incessant caress of the water had washed away every speck of dirt from each leaf, each blade, every flower. The roads, once covered in the dry summer dust, had soaked in the rain and was now wet. The old houses wore a drenched look, gathering moss on the eroded walls, ferns bursting out of the cracks and crevices.

Inside it was damp, dark and dusty from unuse. The closed cupboards reeked of mothballs, the rotting wood peeled out of its polished surface, the walls bulged and bloated in places thanks to the humidity in the air.  The restive soul wanted a breath of the fresh, wet air, heavy with an unknown fragrance from an unknown white flower blooming in the wet bush outside the door. He did not belong to this city anymore. But it rained the same way from where he came.  And that was why he wanted to be outside, under the drizzle, letting it’s cool touch remind him of home. He was not particularly homesick, but the rains made him nostalgic.

But he was also not new to this city. He had once lived in this alley with the decaying houses, from his first day till when he became a successful engineer.  The doors in the alleyway reminded him of the many faces behind them. There was a man who listened to the radio very late into the night at no. 3A, the lady in 4/1/B was a widow with four children, the house with the unusually purple Bougainvillia creeping up it’s walls used to be the home of one of his best friends who had since moved to the Middle East. He wondered how many of those faces were still a part of the decaying houses behind those doors of the alley that ended at his door.

cobbled alley

It was only yesterday, when he stood in front of this door, he had felt a happy lost feeling. Lost in the alleys of his childhood, his house tucked away in the older part of the city with the chaos of life around him. And then his gaze had turned to the green door next to his door, a special door from his boyhood. The fragrance of heena from the freshly washed hair, the clinking of thin, gold bangles, an array of colourful chunnis, the dark kohl lined, almond eyes darting coy looks and then quickly looking away if he happened to look.  He remembered  a  bashful encounter on a Holi morning – the only time when he happened to caress the blushing, warm, softness of the cheek , with her sporting a disobedient plait playfully pushed back where it belonged – an image from his eager boyhood.

But the man had not come back to reclaim unrequitted love. They never had a love story. He had found love in another city, in another girl. She had been married to a banker in a relatively newer part of the city.  He had another purpose today to have returned here thus.

He walked out into the small opening outside his door where the unknown bush grew the unknown white flowers with a heavy, sweet scent. Turning around, he looked up at the facade that was a pale shade of yellow many monsoons ago with broad parapets and arched windows. The window on the second floor was his, with his table and chair by it and his world of books, music, kites and football. The table and chair are now housed in his home with some other memories, the rest gathered dust and grew mouldy behind the closed door of this house.

Then with a shrug he turned the brass key in the latch. This would be the last time he would step into this house again.

But at a later date, the house will don a fresh coat of paint, the windows will be thrown open to the southern wind, there would be new curtains in the old fashioned windows, there would be new footsteps on the stairs climbing up and down. A  new love story would perhaps bloom with another girl next door. With that promise to his past he handed over the keys to the man who stood outside under a black umbrella holding a cheque to his name.

 He climbed into the waiting car at the end of the alley, rolled up the glass and took one last look at the house  before it went out of sight forever.

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2009 in city, Life, Love, Memories, Romance

 

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the face in the window

old window

Have you ever been on a bridge that runs past a house with many windows? Did you notice one particular window, only  half ajar, while the closed shutter hid the pain and the darkness within?  Did it have the hint of a curtain, once floral and bright , now dusty and faded by the western sun? Did the walls have their erstwhile glory peeling to reveal the stark, rude present and was a young Peepul starting to take control over the parapet beneath?

Was it a summer afternoon mellowing into evening? A balmy wind must have lifted a wisp of the fragrant Chameli you bought from the little boy at the last crossroad and it made you look out at the distance, at  the house, at the window. Did you see a face at that window?

Did the face look gently at you and then look away? The eyes – were they forlorn, looking out at the distant sun setting, maybe? And after you had crossed and continued, did you wonder about the face?  The aging, once beautiful face, did it have a story?

Did you keep wondering what her thoughts were, whether she sat there every evening, looking out, looking at the rush of life flowing by her window?

I have seen so many of these faces, in some of the aging cities I have visited or lived in.  A  face in a window, from a bridge or from the street looking up to admire an old house or maybe from another window across the street. Always from a distance. Everytime the  face looked the same to me. A picture of life halted, waiting to pick up the threads, maybe. Or maybe left behind to wait by her window for her future to come calling. But  always, before the story could unfold, before the face could reveal more, I had passed on.


 
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Posted by on July 19, 2009 in city, Life, mansion, Memories, Summer, window

 

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