From where he comes, space is basic not luxury, privacy is effortless and sanctity is still safeguarded. Knowing this, I understand his unsettling feeling of being a lab specimen in your own house; but I’ve rarely ever experienced it.
Growing up in apartments of a crowded city like Mumbai does that to you- You stop counting the number of windows that have clear vision of your apartment when the tube comes on. This, however, hasn’t grown on B even after being here for over a decade. Every evening B will track me down with the curtains carelessly drawn. Without a word, he’ll make a calculated move and the curtains will behave like the hopelessly punished mischievous kid from school.
In Lonavala tonight, we’ve stayed at this solitary bungalow before but it’s the first time that the sense of space fills me up. A funny feeling creeps in. One part of the grand window is blurred with steam from the Dimbula tea I’m sipping on. Even then, I am sure that nearest lit room is far away. A song plays in my head and I turn to see B on his desk, deep in thought, doing what he does for a living- weaving stories. He senses my eyes on him and looks up. I promptly turn and with my free hand begin to draw on the steamy window- a house.
A smiling B gets up from his desk, with eyes pointing to my tilted teacup and the small puddle on the floor! In his characteristic way he fetches the cup from my hands and dabs some tissues on the floor. He’s the perfect antidote to my clumsiness! He pours me some more tea from the white teapot, beaming this entire time. As the cup exchanges hands, he unassumingly opens the window to a sea of dark.
As we both stand there, my mind wanders off to the fields of turnip and raddish we can see from B’s family house in Doon. They have different set of curtains for summer and winter. While recalling the patterns of each, I make a wish...I hope that curtains always remain as furnishing for me.
