What do you see when you look out your window?
Do you admire the outside beauty? Or is there a huge pile of dump that you can see in the corner? Or do you see your half-naked neighbour reading a newspaper on their porch while enjoying the cool breeze?
When I look my window, I don’t really look outside at all. I am lost in my dreamy space that no one can enter. I normally lose and find myself at the same time. Only by evading the present am I able to write. The past several weeks, I was busy living the present. And I had lost my words and myself.
But, I believe, this morning was different.
As I gazed out my window through the shiny iron rods, I couldn’t help but fall in love with the outside world. Strangely, I felt trapped in my cocoon. I had the sudden urge to walk out and run wildly. Somewhere, to someone. Anywhere, to anyone.
Nowhere, to no one.
For the next few minutes that you read this, I beseech you to look out through my eyes.
It’s a dull and a beautiful Saturday morning. I haven’t written anything in weeks. You wouldn’t really know how I feel at the moment. I am tired and my eyes look sick. There is a tormenting gale inside me that rams into my ribs and makes breathing so difficult. I grasp for something, anything that can inspire me to write. I am aware of a hollowness inside me that slowly sucks me into depression. And I cry. Sometimes quietly, sometimes desperately with a rage that tears me apart. The longer I wait for the inspiration, the harder my life gets.
Imagine that you are looking at a little puppy. A beautiful collie with bright, shining eyes. The gorgeous, brown collie is running about in the meadow, barking now and then. He sniffs the fresh air and his mouth hangs wide open giving the illusion of his smile. Suddenly, he is caged. He goes round and about, looking for an opening. He needs to be free, for he knows how sweet freedom is. He barks wildly. He jumps and hurts himself. But nothing can stop him. He goes crazy with anger and it’s scary to watch him in pain. He rebels and barks, but slowly, he starts whimpering. He sits down and waits for a miracle. I don’t know if he has accepted the confined cage to be his home. Well, I really don’t know anything. The collie and I are both rowing in the same boat. But that’s a whole another story.
Come, let’s look out my window.
It’s a gorgeous, dreary Saturday morning. The soft, pelting rain is what pulled me out of my bed. The greenish hue that my garden spreads is surely a thing you shouldn’t miss. It’s delicate and beautiful. The leaves of the Ashoka tree peeps in through my window. They wink at me as if fully aware of the transformation of their beauty into words. The rain has washed off all the dirt. The air smells clean and in spite of the dark sky, it all feels bright.
There is huge mango tree that stands gloriously in the corner, on the right. There are no mangoes yet; quite a few months to go before you can see them.
One of its branches runs horizontal to the ground, a good fifteen feet above it. If you look carefully, you can see a tiny house-like structure hanging among the thick, green leaves. How it came about hanging on the tree involves a story about my father who loves birds and wants them to find that little house. Often, I see little bees playing hide and seek around it or tiny birdies storing their straws and nest-making materials there.
Oh! The rain is stronger now, clattering with such noise. Do you like getting wet in the rain? I absolutely rejoice dancing in the rain. But the first few seconds that the cold droplets fall on my body, tingling me and making me squirm are enough to stop me from going out often. What a baby!
But in my defence, the rain is on a serious attack. There. Look! Do you see her? That tiny sparrow? Aren’t sparrows just adorable? She is so pretty; painted in wonderful shades of glossy yellow and dull grey. I see her around the garden very often. It’s a first for you, though.
I can see her struggling. Her wings flutter with a vigour and she fights the rain. Flying strongly against the wind, she makes her way to the little house I told you about. She flew right in and shook its little body to dry herself (I believe she must’ve done that. There is no way I can see what she was doing inside.) After a few minutes, she peeked outside, her baby head foreseeing the possibility of the threatening rain. Or, she must have expected the rain to have stopped miraculously.
And here I was, waiting for the words to come to me. We both waited. Looking out of our own windows, hopelessly with hope. She edged further outside to feel the rain. I inched my fingers closer to my pen to feel its surface. She craned her neck to the side to feel the heavy droplets fall from the sky. I opened the pen cap and stared at the nib.
The writing paper rippled, mad to have been separated from the pen. The little sparrow went inside her little abode, scared. A tear fell down my eye as my fingers trembled and the pen dropped on my writing pad. That exact moment, she whooshed out of its protective cocoon and zoomed by the window chirping excitedly. The loud clatter of the rain and the roaring thunder pulled me from my reverie. Fuck it. I picked up my pen and words came to me. I bet my little birdie must have flown out saying that exact thing in its little, chirpy voice.