Tag Archives: view through my window

From My Window – 2


Post -2 in the series ‘From My Window’

Today I will tell you about a one window house where I stayed for  a short period. Before I take you  into the world outside my window you must know something about the house.

The flat was on the upper storey of a two storey building in a congested, filthy locality meant for sweepers and lower staff of a government hospital. How I came to this particular house is another story. It was the first year of my marriage and I was seven and half months pregnant with my first child and the stuffy, humid post monsoon weather was no help. There would be unpredictable dust storms, heavy relentless rains or just intense heat.  The house was filthy, unkempt and most of the places near the sink and balcony had algae growing in various shades of green. The ceiling was high and the only bulb that provided light to both the tiny cubicles called bathrooms was fused. I could not by any given chance change it.

The high point was the big rats who infested the house. Day and night they would  practice high or low jumps and destroy anything that they could lay their teeth on , from suitcases to bedding to clothes  and food.

I would sit there watching the scenario with brimming eyes, trying to protect myself and the few things I had.  None of the neighbors spoke to me as they found me “above their level” and were strangely surprised to see us move in.  With no help and long hours of loneliness I would stand near the window or sometimes pull a chair close to it and look out.

The window opened to an open patch of land between all the buildings and apart from a tree , some small saplings and a tiny patch of grass held nothing. I would stare at the vacant patch that resembled the emptiness inside me. I would wonder how I will manage once the child was born? How will I ensure its safety , what will I feed the baby, who will look after me? Why did the father of the child bring me to this hole? Why wasn’t he there? What went wrong? I sought all the answers from the world outside my window. No birds came there but I could hear their calls from nearby trees. One could also see other buildings that surrounded the dry patch. Plaster chipping off the walls, dirty water flowing out of the pipes, piles of garbage tucked in corners, mothers yelling at kids and kids yelling back. Sometimes one would even spot a drunkard trotting around in the fading light of dusk.

Mostly I had to keep the window close to keep away mosquitoes and other pests and from the hazy glass panes the view outside blurred to a dusty brown.

Even after rigorous scrubbing the glass panes remained dull and depressing.  Most of the time I would feel sick and had no energy to even eat but the little life inside me nudged me gently to get proper nutrition.  In the mornings the milkman came on his bicycle ringing the bell to announce his arrival. The sight of milk made me vomit but I still went to the window to watch the women from other houses take milk from him. That was one ritual that connected me with other humans. I listened to their conversations , watched the kids running around and for those 15-20 minutes my mind took a flight someplace else. I dreamed of fresh air, clear sky, my baby and a life outside the cell I was imprisoned in. Not that I could not or did not go out but due to my condition and lack of resources I stayed home.

In the afternoon boys would play cricket and  scream and shout at every run taken and every dismissal.  Rarely I watched the game.  Evenings brought more people out of their houses. Men, back from work, gathered to exchange daily news, children came out with their elder siblings or mothers and rode their bicycles  or played while mothers gossiped.

Usually a fruit or vegetable vendor would venture into the area but mostly I would hear them call from the road which was not visible from my home. Sometimes  I could also see the thin elderly man who sold chana poori on his bicycle. He had a small stove, a pot and a basket which contained plates (dona) made of dry Banyan or Sal leaves). For a few hours during lunch hours he would set up his little food joint at the corner of the building. I could never see who bought the food from him but he seemed busy from his actions.

Many times there would be nothing to cook at home and on one such day the father of baby decided to bring food from outside. To  my amazement he decided to try the same chana  kulcha. The choice was clear, either go to bed hungry or eat what is served. Thick red oil floated on top of the chana and it smelled strongly of kerosene.  With great difficulty I managed to eat a bite or two. Drowning away the sting of chilies and hurt with water. From then I would get an imaginary smell of spiced kerosene from the window. Only a good spray of mosquito repellant all over the window would drown that smell. Or maybe not.

Rain  or dust storm would bring havoc  as the window would struggle to fly free from its latches. I would struggle from the other end to tie a string to the two handles to keep the shutters from opening. Dust and water would still trickle in. It would enter from every possible place.  The rats would hide till the storm raged but I was always able to  hear them lurking behind things ready to launch forth.

My baby would be still too urging me to rest while I could. I would communicate with it and pray for the storm in my life to settle.  Once the wrath of the weather gods would end I would open the window again and smell the wet earth combined with various other undesired smells but it was still better than the caged stuffiness that lay on this side of the window.

A cable ran across from the side of our building to the opposite one beyond the patch and usually it did not attract any visitors but on one particular day a sweet melodious sound brought me to the window and I saw a tiny black bird merrily singing. Oblivious to its surroundings it slowly swayed on the cable hopping to the right and then to the left as if dancing to its own tune. It was the only brightness the window ever brought into my life and a signal to something better for me and my unborn child.

Within days of that beautiful sight we moved out of the place to another house that would change the course of  my life forever.  It was a forced decision which I took for the sake of the safety of my baby who was about to arrive in this world within a month and a half.

One day before we moved out one side of the window pane crashed as the cricket ball found its target. The impact not just broke the glass it also shook the frame from its hinges. The whole day as I packed my meager belongings the window door rattled swayed and banged against the wall and the remaining part of it whole. A monotonous requiem for all that died before it had chance to live.

We bid farewell to the broken window on a still September morning  never to return. Though I do feel an urge to take my elder one there once for some odd reason.

 

Do read  Post -1 

From My Window – 1


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Last evening there was a storm and as I gazed from the window of my room at the rapidly changing sky  and at the drama that unfolded nine floors below at ground level  I remembered reading a marvelous book by Matteo Pericoli titled ‘The City Out My Window‘. ( Click the link to view. ) The book has 63 views on New York with a little description below them. It was an interesting read which took me back in time and I thought of writing about some of my favorite windows in the houses I have lived in and my memories of the world outside them.

Here is the first post of the series I call ‘From My Window‘

 

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This is the only window photograph I have and a precious one too. Me sitting pretty near the window listening to my brother. Ma says it was my favorite place in the house. I must have been seven- eight month old. The photograph is taken at our home in Nainital where I was born. The photograph is taken with a box camera and beyond the mesh you can see part of the the rolling hills. Our house was on a height and this room was on first floor.

Since childhood I had no power to decide where to live and we moved from place to place depending on where mom got transferred. Mostly we lived in government colonies and the windows mostly opened to many other windows or the balconies of the irregular buildings opposite or adjacent to ours.  Not much of a view you would say but stories are born even from the most mundane.

 

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(This is not the tree outside my window but it reminded me of that.)

 We had just moved to Delhi and lived on the first floor of a two-story private house. I was in primary school  then. This particular window looked out to a flamboyant Gulmohar tree with delicate green leaves which caressed  its glass panes on breezy days. The tree was right beside the side entrance from on the road to the stairs which led to our home. The year we rented the house the tree was so small it  barely reached  our first floor window but within a few months it shot past it.

Earlier the window offered a wider view and one could  see  a piece of sky  crossed by power lines and other houses,  section of the park where children played at almost any time of the day and the main road that separated our colony with the commercial complex but as the tree grew bigger and spread its branches the entire view got blocked.  We could get a glimpse of it through the sparse foliage during autumn and winter but in summers  the view from the window changed dramatically as the tree burst into a glorious silken vermilion red.

Lovely flowers filled the entire window and one could almost touch them if one extended the arm out a little pressing the face against the cool grill. It soothed the eyes to watch the fresh shades of greens. There was a lot hidden behind the green and red. Various birds rested in the shade as the summer sun-scorched everything that it touched. Many a time one would spot  mynas, barbets, parrots and other birds hidden in foliage of its wide-spread branches. Once a pair of green pigeons made a nest in the tree. The pair would drive off bullying mynas all day to protect the two beautiful white eggs.

I would lie on a straw mat during the afternoons , belly exposed and watch the sounds and the colors outside the window.  Mostly my elder brother, who was in charge of me in the absence of my working mother,  would lie on a mat next to mine threatening  me with dire consequences if I did not sleep. I would close my eyes in obedience and wait. When I was sure that he has dozed off  I would open one eye to inspect the scenario and finding the field clear float into my favorite world, eyes wide open.  On occasions when I quietly tried to sneak to the window , a quiet stern voice would freeze me in my tracks and I would return to the mat and feign sleep.

It was not that he did not enjoy the view outside the window but to watch a fidgety younger sister in the peak of summer afternoon was a daunting task.  He devised a few strategies to keep me at one place. One of them was to slowly move the palm on the bare tummy in circular motion. His theory was that doing so made one sleepy.  It worked at times but mostly it was him who dozed off while demonstrating.   I found the activity immensely pleasing. I still sleep like that :p

When the strong, dry hot summer afternoon wind (loo) menacingly whooshed past the buildings the window would stay shut, mostly with curtains drawn, and I would lie there under the fan swirling at full speed gazing at the swaying curtains to catch a glimpse of the flaming tree outside.  Sometimes a squirrel would land on the window sill and chat with the other habitants of the tree.  I bet it spied on us through the slits during those chat sessions. Maybe they even talked about us and missed seeing me at the window.

Very often there would be a power cut and on those days I would lazily sway my woven straw hand fan (pankhi) trying to decipher the cacophony of the tree dwellers and then there would be days when not a thing would stir. Indian summer can suck the soul out of anything. A solitary crow would sometimes come and inspect the scene from the top branch and begin its soliloquy much to the disgust of the squirrels who would scurry up and down the tree trunk cursing it in a chorus.

The road under my window mostly remained empty during summer afternoons but once in a while a tired vendor would come selling phalsa or jamuns and he would call in a sing-song voice urging people to buy the cooling fruits. My mouth would water at the thought of the juicy purple fruits sprinkled with salt and special masala and I would look at big brother with beseeching eyes who in turn would keep reading or turn and snore. Life can be tough for little girls and on such days I wished mom was home.

I don’t have much remembrance of what I saw outside my window during other seasons. Maybe because the Gulmohar flowered only in summer and in winters I would be curled up in the other room or soak up the sun on the attached terrace.

Some of the best summer afternoons  were spent by that window reading,  drawing, sipping cool lemonade or just watching the world go by.

In the coming days I will bring to you some more memorable window stories.

Those who wish to share their stories can leave a link to their posts in the comment section of this post.