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I live in a beautiful little house on the fifth floor of our building. My
parents particularly chose to live here because it faces the southeast-
glorious sunshine, warm in the winters, cool in the summers- and very
auspicious in all respects. |
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What I enjoy the most however, is the
view I get from one of the balconies. There are three might I add, one
facing our neighbours, the other towards the back of our compound,
overlooking the city, the cacophonious (I think I made this up!) bus-stand,
adjoining hotels, and the general hustle-bustle of the accompanying town
life. My favourite one however, faces the "other world". This beautiful
strip is lined with my mother's favourite dahlias, and since it receives the
maximum sunshine and affords abundant privacy I love spending time there!
I generally have very specific reasons for visiting my favourite balcony-to
dry my hair, to escape the chill in our rooms during the months of December
and January, and more often, in a pretext to study in "solace". I have
learnt a number of lessons, rambling in "the balcony near the kitchen", mind
you, but I've always been fascinated much much more by the sights and sounds
around the place, than the laws and molecules governing my textbooks!
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It's bizarre how inside our house we find it really straining to catch what
my mother shouts at me from her room to mine, but standing in that balcony,
I can actually find myself tuned into the sounds (I don't call them noises)
of utensils being scraped across the floor, bangles jingling, cricket balls
being caught, and children laughing, least aware of anything around them,
five floors below..!
Families of the lower class workers live in these flats just outside the
boundaries of our complex. Some houses are well structured, but those I can
see only from a distance. The ones nearest to my balcony have a thatched
asbestos roof, they share walls with a ground which we use for dumping
garbage, and are adorned with a drain running across all four sides.
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Although I can see only two doors, I'm sure the families are huge, because there
is always a surprisingly large number of kids running around, and more than
often, climbing the roof.
Just the other day I was standing there, a towel in my hand, a frown against the
blazing sun, and my eyes narrowed to get a better view of the construction in
progress beyond one of the buildings. Rather out of the blue, and with a spring
in their step, three little boys climbed up onto the roof of the house directly
facing the balcony. Technically speaking, it would be the third floor, two
floors below my level.
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Well, they sauntered up, and- I wish I didn't have such a horrible
vision-looked around to check if the coast was clear (this is basically my
lucid imagination, it may have well been nothing of the sort!) and the
eldest (or maybe the tallest) of the three took something out of his pocket,
and the three began to shift around a bit looking for a nice spot to do
whatever they had to (I couldn't see!)
Anyway, I had gotten a bit too cosy I guess, and was quite properly leaning
against the balcony railing, and as bound as it was to happen, the smallest
kid spotted me. I looked away with as much dignity as I could muster,
standing with my hands folded, and so did he!
That was sort of the end of my afternoon outing in the balcony, and I
glided back inside the kitchen. It may well have been my entangled mane that
struck the kid as something worthwhile to look at, but nevertheless, my
guilt at
eavesdropping (sort of anyway..) drove me to come up with this entry.
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The first author I truly
ever enjoyed and who in a way compelled me to bask in the glory of the written
word was Ruskin Bond. Even today (six years since I first read a Ruskin Bond
story), every time I read a short story, or a novel of his I let myself believe
he is actually telling a tale of something that happened to him. His
protagonists are always strugglers, either unsuccessful professionally, or with
love. They are always close to nature, and to the streets of India. They always
deal with some of the most hopeless, yet the most profound day to day issues
faced by about ninety per cent of our countrymen. But in all the melancholy and
somberness, there's the zeal to live, the enthusiasm to make the most of the
smallest things in life, love, flowers, trees, hills, rivers.
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My balcony, is my window to that world. I look at those kids, playing
cricket in their lanes, flying kites on their roofs, shabbily clad, with an
unmistakable air of malnourishment, and I smile. A part of me even longs to
be in their place. I told my father once, he smiled and said, It's okay if
you feel that way, but the thing to think about, is why? I really don't know
why, maybe I look at them playing, running around, and feel they don't have
the responsibility, to study, to work, to do many things that I have to.
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But in a way I also feel I am foolish to think of it that way, they
obviously have responsibility, when they grow up, they will have to make ends
meet, something I may not find as tough in my life. They are free as children,
but will I be freer as an adult? I really can't answer this, can you?
For now, I enjoy my window, I enjoy watching the ladies put up their clothes for
drying, I enjoy them chatting up on their verandahs, I love the sound of bat
hitting ball, I love to see the little girls in the school uniforms, bouncy red
ribbons, slates and tuition bags. Maybe my balcony to the "other world" will
someday help me to fulfill my dream of writing about people, writing about life,
writing like Ruskin Bond. Till then, it's my novel, and I read it
Contributed By:
Poorva Gupta
poorva63@gmail.com
To read more
Musings India, visit
http://www.contentwriter.in/
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