Its February. The bare branches of the Indian cork trees stretch heavenwards pleading for fresh garments to cover their nakedness. Beyond them, usually shielded by their thick foliage, the grey and white tower block too stands exposed to curious eyes.
Life is astir behind the concrete facade—a blur of images on a TV screen where someone catches up on the morning news. Quick busy movements in a lighted kitchen. The sound of a morning raga from an open window. But it is on the balconies that the circle of life unfolds…stay with me as I play the role of spectator and raconteur.
The beginnings
Life is just beginning on the first floor balcony where a father gently paces to and fro, cradling his infant close. The baby is fretful, the father caresses his back with infinite tenderness. I am too far away to hear the soft murmurs of endearment (or a hummed lullaby perhaps,) as the baby is soothed back to sleep. It is a tender moment, a scene at once familiar and fleeting. All too soon the moment will pass, and the babe in arms will be a toddler on his own two feet.
Much like the toddler peering through the balcony rails on the third floor. He gazes at the world in wide-eyed wonder—at the crow that lands heavily on the branch, at the grey squirrel that scampers up the tree trunk, the voices of the morning walkers below. This is the world which he will inhabit and inherit. The family pet barks excitedly at the sight of his bête-noire, the orange tabby; and the little fellow joins in enthusiastically with little whoops of joy!
A sudden flurry of feathers, and my gaze is drawn upwards to the top floor where an angel in beribboned pigtails and a plaid school uniform quietly tips her breakfast bowl to the pigeons below. A quick glance around to make sure no busybody neighbours are watching, and she skips back indoors. Like a Monalisa with the inscrutable smile, her secret will soon be safe—inside a pigeon crop!
the halfway mark
There is much bustle and activity in the adjacent balcony. A young mother with her hair still wrapped in a turban is hurriedly putting out the laundry. She waves to her children as they climb up on the two-wheeler behind her husband. Its the morning rush hour and she flings the assorted tees, and jumpers, school uniforms and socks on the clothesline haphazardly before darting back inside. She has a hundred chores to complete, a thousand responsibilities to fulfil. It is the time for toil—the halfway point in the circle of life.
And then, it’s time to reap. Life has slowed down to a leisurely pace for the middle-aged couple in the beautiful corner balcony. The cushioned patio furniture is framed by pink, white and purple bouganvillea, the hanging pots of petunias a similar riot of colours. The perfect spot for quiet conversations and leisurely sips of morning coffee.
the fading years
Some years later. The frail white-haired man sits in a little patch of the morning sun, newspaper folded on his knee. There will be plenty of time to read it later. Now he listens to the cheery goodbyes of children leaving for school, the maids gossiping, the delivery boys on their rounds. He raises an occasional hand in greeting to the brisk morning walkers below. He was one of them. Once. Now he watches from the sidelines, the balcony his link to the outside world.
And the final stage. The empty balcony in the far corner. The flotsam and jetsam of a human life gather dust in the corner, disused flower pots lie stacked in another. A solitary money plant struggles to survive, a forgotten tea towel flaps forlornly in the breeze. It stirs a set of ancient wind chimes, the tinkling music providing the closing note in the circle of life.