LEFT
To my left, distant in the visible range, I can see a bathroom, on the
terrace of another building, unattached to the main household. You can
never tell the season when you observe the lady who ritually washes her
clothes, with the door ajar, at 4:30
in the morning. Even in the necrotic cold of Delhi winters, she'd wash
her clothes with equal vigor as she'd do in summers; maybe calling it a
day after her graveyard shift in a BPO or maybe beginning her day to a
long commute to her workplace somewhere in the NCR, who knows...
Adjacent to her building is a nondescript wall of another with but one
small window. The window is fitted with a desert-cooler in summers, and
left open for the little post afternoon sun rays in winters. The
dwellers of this house have mysteriously eluded my notice through all
these years. And this has led me to very blandly name it 'the mysterious
house', for my references, correctly maybe, who knows...
Closer, I can see the terrace of a haunted building strewn with fallen
kites, some new and vivid while some are just cognizable remnants of the
glorious celestial past that they once had, and dying with them are the
tales of the wonderful things and the dark secrets they'd seen through
peoples' windows during their short flights up high. No kite runner ever
dared to get these fallen kites back which'd fallen here to meet their
destiny of never flying again. I call it the "kite's graveyard" lending
inspiration from its namesake for elephants in Africa. Well, the house
must be haunted because it is very unnatural for such a big property in
the heart of the city to remain uninhabited. When I asked locals about
it, I just got a "Pata nahi" for an answer. Probably a family dispute or
maybe even a crime scene to a cold blooded murder, who knows...
BEHIND
Just behind me is another terrace, at a lower level, where I can see a
young lady talk incessantly to her boyfriend way into the late night and
early mornings. Her huge German shepherd keeps her company and barks at
any unknown face craning their heads out to catch a glimpse of the
pretty girl. But of late, she's stopped talking on the terrace anymore.
Maybe she's broken up or maybe she's outgrown the love there was, who
knows...
On the other hand, straight across the pretty girl's terrace, I can see
the bedroom of another building where there's another girl, with hair so
long that it ends way below her waist. She mustn't be more than 18 or
19 years old but one might be led to think otherwise what with her
full-grown breasts and ample hips. She, on the other hand, has, of late,
started spending too much time over the phone. Maybe a budding puppy
love or maybe scholastic discussions, who knows...
RIGHT
There's nothing to my right, except for the rough and unplastered wall
of a building taller than me. Sometimes a cigarette butt and at other
times empty chips packets thrown from its terrace at me make me know
that life exists there.
FRONT
Just in front of me, slightly towards the right, I can see two
daughters-in-law of a single family. I'd heard that both of them, even
years after getting married could not give their parents-in-law a
grandchild. The father-in-law went to some temple and promised a goat as
sacrifice if he could become a grandfather. And within a year, both the
wives became mothers. The now grandfather kept his promise and
sacrificed a black goat and distributed its meat to the whole
neighborhood. I'd even heard that this one particular vegetarian family
accepted the meat and then sold it to their maid for 200 rupees. And as
for the pregnancies, maybe true divine intervention or IVF, who knows...
Right in front of me, there is a middle aged man who lives with his
mother, a psychiatric patient on medication. I'd heard that this whole
neighborhood belonged to his father. They lived in Canada when he was a
child. Once, when he was about 10 years old, his father visited India
over some family property dispute. During this visit, he was allegedly poisoned and he succumbed to an
untimely death. His mother, grief stricken, lost her mental balance and
they'd since then started living here, the only house that was left in
their name. I'd also heard that he denied many a marriage proposals
during his twenties because he was skeptical how his newly wed wife
would react to his mentally ill mother who needed constant care and who
he loved dearly. Truly touching act by a son or maybe an unconventional
orientation, who knows...
I don't have a nose but if I had and if it were pointy enough to point
somewhere, it'd point to this barsaati atop this ochre building. A
barsaati is a single room built on a portion of the terrace of a
building. This one in question has only one window with a cracked glass
held together by duct tape and an ironically sturdy metal door with a
big lock. I'd never seen so many dreams emanating from any single place
before. Every seldom, sometimes a year and sometimes two, I see a young
new face in that room. And I see hard work and sweat in that room. The
same dogged perseverance I see even when the room becomes a sweltering
50 degrees in the Delhi summer. And when it's bedtime, I see beautiful
dreams of achievement, dreams of success in that room. Many had left
this room with their trunk full of books, with disappointment writ large
over their faces. But none of the ones who'd left had given up dreaming
those dreams. They're still safe in their minds and their hearts. Maybe
they were preparing for civil services or for some PG exams, who knows.
But as long as they do not give up dreaming, they'll succeed, I know...
Oh, did I not introduce myself? Sorry I don't have a name, but I have a number. I am house no 3282/4...
