Window
The window has a polished wooden frame, fixtures of brass and its glass is unencumbered by unsightly grills. It is bisected horizontally by a white muslin curtain, opaque enough to keep prying eyes out and transluscent enough to let the light in. Through the curtain, the view from the window is shadowy, dream-like. Above the curtain, though, is the clear sky and the treetops. This is where my eyes often search for the wind, the peepal leaves and the birds.
When the wind picks up, as it so often does in this oceanside home, the curtain is tossed upwards. This evening, there is unrest in the air. A weather system just off the coast has been toying with the city, hinting at storms and downpours but holding off, tantalising and teasing. The brown kites, usually unperturbed and riding the high thermals, find themselves caught in this strange mocking wind. Their calls are plaintive. I imagine they are communicating their frustration to each other, as one call blends into another. They are pushed downwards, battling the tree branches and the high wind almost at eye level. I see them curving their wings, bracing their tail feathers, but it is useless – the wind plays with the birds, sending them careening off towards the ocean. There, I imagine, they are momentarily frozen above the brown monsoon waves, before that same wind, fickle and ever changing, turns on them and buffets them back inland.
The sky is grey, but streaked with the colours of the setting sun. I think of friends with access to terraces and unrestricted views of these pandemic skies – spectacular sunsets are our reward for good behaviour, it seems. I must be content for now with a sliver of sky, viewed through the dark branches of the gulmohar trees, and my imagination paints in the rest.
The kites have given up. The wind is too much even for their strong wings. Their protesting cries die down. Exhausted, they perch on branches, tuck their heads against wet breasts and settle down for the night. The wind tries to entice them into continuing the game but no, they are done for the day. The wind rattles a few higher branches, chases a squirrel or two unlucky enough to be still out at dusk. It kindly leaves the badam alone, so that the sparrows doze on, undisturbed. There is a final ruckus as the parrots shout unkind words at the wind. The ocean is calling now and the wind leaves my window curtains to fall in soft folds and retreats for the night. Out at sea at least, it may find company in a few leaping dolphins and the waves, always restless, always ready for a tussle.
This mid-September wind is no friend of mine. It brings showers of salty water and burns away the tender new growth on my litchi plant. It topples the palm that has outgrown its pot, making it top heavy. It frightens away the sparrows and the parrots fight even more vociferously with it than with each other. I miss the February breezes, the gentler winds of early monsoon. This wind is a dying wind. It’s playing out its last hurrah, reminding us that once it leaves, the sun will be merciless again. And yet, after almost four months of grey skies and stormy weather, I won’t miss it. It knows this, it knows that it has outstayed its welcome: hence the histrionics. Still, go it must, if only to hoot down a faraway chimney or rattle an unknown window pane. Here, we are ready for the seething calm of the sun.