The World Outside My Window

Mar 04, 2023

I can see a mango tree from my desk. Whenever frustration strikes — and this truly has been a month of differently-shaped frustrations — I remind myself of this fact. And then, I sit down to gaze at the tree. Whenever I do this, I feel the litany of complaints, the slow-cooking rants, and the never-ending anxieties quietly fade away. Some days, they fade into clarity and I feel able to carpe diem whatever needs seizing. Mostly though, I come away feeling insignificant. A relief-inducing feeling that the world is large enough, and I am, well, not. As I write this, I am at my desk again, and this is the story of what I see.

Afternoon is slowly giving in to evening. The harsh glare of the sun is letting up a bit. If I look closely, the leaves on the mango tree appear to be bathed in slightly faded golden light — though this could also be because of the severe pollution in the city lately. Every few minutes a group of crows fly out. A murder. Which is what a group of crows are called, and not an expression of my sentiment towards them. (I actually don’t mind them.) A thwack sound startles them every few minutes or so, and they take to the skies, fly around in a semi-circular arc, and perch on the branches of the tree again. Every time this little game happens, I think that maybe the overwhelming lesson of nature is one of resilience. A few months after I first moved in this house, the mango tree’s branches were pruned. They were a potential hazard to the roofs of the houses next to it. I remember thinking then, “Well, there goes whatever little slice of greenery I had in this city.” But, the tree grew back. And every evening, the crows fly back.

The thwack sound is also an everyday feature. More or less. It comes from a bat hitting a ball, wielded by a young boy. Behind the tree, there is an open stretch of land. I don’t think it can be called a maidan. It’s definitely not a park. It’s just a rocky, construction-in-progress open space — the kind that you can find in most neighbourhoods in the city. I am pretty sure a building will be constructed there soon, but for now, it’s where a group of boys play cricket every evening.

I don’t know if you were a sporty kid, but I definitely wasn’t. Even so, the first thing I am reminded of when I see these kids is a smell. That smell of long summer evenings, spent playing whatever game that was the flavour of the season (I remember a game called Gallery?), with the anticipation of ready dinner at the end of a sweaty evening. It’s really such a cliché, but every time I see a kid, I want to go tell them to enjoy this time as much as they can. Of course, at that age any adult who presumes to know life better than you is quickly dismissed. Because when you’re a kid, you feel that your problems are life-defining, and of course, the only ones that matter. All you want is to just be an adult. Even if you could meet your future-you, you wouldn’t listen to them. I know I would definitely not have. What is that saying about youth being wasted on the young?

Behind the kids is a row of food carts. Square, with a tiny roof, and names painted in red, green and blue in the Devanagari font. If I squint, I can read their names — faluda, and two local brands of ice-cream. Every day, I see the cart vendors come out in the afternoon, organise their goods, and do business. Mostly, their customers are the kids who are taking a break from the cricket. On some days, when work is busy, and I find that I cannot look at one more screen — big or small — for one more minute, I try and make out what illustrations are painted on their carts. I have deduced that there is at least one vanilla ice-cream cone painted on the carts. It’s not much, but at least this way, I don’t get a reels song stuck in my head.

On my lucky days, I am graced by the Queen of the world outside my window. Or at any rate, one of the Queens. A white majestic cat, walking across the tarpaulin of the roof next to the mango tree with astonishing grace and ferocity. I am happy to report that my neighbourhood is one where cats not only roam free, but rule the streets. Often when I am walking back from the grocery store or something, I see a cat sitting on the footpath and say “Excuse me, sorry.” Because it does feel like we are the intruders on a world filled with their own battles, gangs, alliances, and loves. It’s another way to remind you of your insignificance, I think. Look at a cat — and then watch it look away as it attends to more important matters.

My window gazing comes to an end around six in the evening every day. Because that’s around the time when the first mosquito buzzes in to survey the land (my room) and report back to its comrades. It’s the sign I need to shut the window, and do a similar check of all the open windows at home. Sometimes, thanks to marathon meetings, I miss the first incursion by the mosquito armies. On those nights, I spend many hours battling the mosquitoes with an electric racket-bat and then lather myself with a mosquito-repellent cream. (I am rubbish at it, my flatmate though is a Master at the game.)

But both the night and the mosquitoes are a while away now. For now, as I type this, I can see the leaves on the mango tree shimmying for my attention. I look at them, the crows doing their flying dance, hear the bat going thwack, the shadows growing longer and I think maybe this is what the wise ones meant when they said pause in the everyday. Or maybe they didn’t, and like I have discovered in so many ways this month, maybe I simply don’t know many things.

All I know is this — I can see a mango tree outside my window. And that’s all there is to it.

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