Across the Street

Have you, dear reader, ever been to the colonies ravaged by builders, where every bit of land is squeezed to make a row house fit into it? Where the philosophy of the builder has an element of mysticism to it.He wants  you to empathize with your fellow beings in villages that have no roads and on the other side he amazes you with the generosity with which he makes a street which you could gaily call a greater version of a ‘pagdandi’. If you have ever had such mystic experiences you know exactly where I stay and the setting of my narrative.

Her daughter is angry with her today. Since morning she has just been asking her to do some work and has not even said "good morning". The little seven year old is hurt and sits on the terrace alone, venting all her pain to an imaginary friend of her’s for the consolation of a patient listening sans moralizing. She called for her girl aloud from the first floor in her nasal and shrill voice - “Where the hell are you? Didn’t I ask you to tidy the bed? Couldn’t you find a better time to while away on the terrace?”

My heart pained for the young one. Can’t she be somewhat soft with her children? The girl climbs down the stairs and enters the house. I hear no sound now. 

I am sure they are unaware of the fact that they have an avid audience in me, their neighbour. Though our houses face each other we had never been friends. To be  precise  we had never wanted to be either and were quite happy being cordial neighbours until one day we just wished that our houses could turn their backs on each other . And I am sure even if the houses wanted to do as we wished them to the street would never allow.Playing the austere symbol of a sublime philosophy,it would have never let such animosity to grow on its edges.            If only it could!

In spite of all that not being friends and now not being neighbors either, I have always had  a keenness in her life. She is an ordinary lady with three kids, little means, a whole bunch of household work and a decently non demanding job. The little insight that our dear street allows into her private life, I have always seen her going about her work, calling out or talking to her children( something that is very close to shouting), or taking her two wheeler out to drive all the way to her work.  Over the years, nothing has changed the way she has been living her a day and giving every bit of her life for being what I so casually call

a ‘homemaker’.  It was only a couple of years back that they built two rooms for themselves and I imagined on her face the satisfaction of a job well done, of a home well made. As I saw the progress of the rooms being built on the first floor of her house and the path for sunshine to greet my windows shrink , I complaint and appreciated her in a peculiar blend of incomprehensible feelings. Though I have learnt to miss the sunshine I haven’t still learnt to appreciate my neighbors who are not friends.

Everyday I go to my veranda and look at her house, her children, listen to her conversations with them. Everyday I face her as both of us push off for work at the same time and everyday I strangle my inert wish to meet her eyes across the street, smile and say “You have made a beautiful house!”.

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