The Window That Opened Our World
Though the move happened nearly seven
years ago, the memory of shifting from their old first-floor flat to the 14th
floor still sits gently in the author’s heart, like a chapter bookmarked for
life.
The old home had sheltered them well,
but its limitations were woven into daily living. The bedroom window opened
straight into the neighbour’s bedroom, so close that even casual conversations
drifted in. Sunlight rarely visited, ventilation was a constant struggle, and
the narrow distance between the two buildings wrapped the flat in a quiet
claustrophobia they had simply learned to endure.
Yet leaving it brought a strange tug
of nostalgia - after all, it had witnessed their early joys, struggles, and
small rituals of everyday life.
But the moment they stepped into the
new apartment on the 14th floor, the contrast was almost breathtaking. Sunshine
streamed in as though greeting them personally. No walls loomed nearby, no
windows stared back. Instead, a vast, five-kilometre stretch of open view
welcomed them, rooftops scattered far below, vehicles gliding like quiet toys,
and a horizon that felt almost endless. For a family accustomed to tight spaces
and borrowed privacy, it felt like stepping into air that finally had room for
their hopes.
Preparing for the move had been its
own journey - sorting old letters, forgotten souvenirs, worn-out clothes, and
deciding what deserved a place in their new life. Boxes were labelled
carefully; fragile items were wrapped like little memories being protected. And
when the movers finally left, the apartment felt both empty and full at the
same time, empty of things, but full of possibility.
Some of the most cherished memories
unfolded in the months that followed. During the monsoon, the family would
gather by the large windows to watch sheets of rain sweep across the main road,
turning the world below into a shimmering painting. Lightning danced far away,
clouds drifted at eye level, and the city glowed softly under the storm. Everyone
would squeal when they spotted tiny umbrellas moving like colourful ants below.
Festivals brought their own magic.
From the 14th floor, the lights of Ganesh Chaturthi pandals sparkled like
jewels scattered across the neighbourhood. During Navratri, the sound of
distant garba floated up gently, and the colourful decorations stitched together
a tapestry of celebration visible from far above. The city buzzed with energy,
yet from their balcony, it all felt serene festive beauty without the crowds.
Guests who visited were always
captivated. They would pause mid-sentence, drawn helplessly to the windows,
whispering, “What a view…”
As if the openness itself was not enough, the drawing room offered yet another quiet delight. The large windows overlooked the monorail tracks, and every now and then, a sleek, gleaming monorail would glide past - silent, suspended, almost unreal. From the 14th floor, it looked less like public transport and more like a toy train powered by invisible batteries, moving gently through the air. For visiting guests, this became an unexpected bonus, drawing them instinctively to the windows, waiting for the next passing carriage with childlike curiosity.
For the family, it wasn’t just a view - it was a reminder of how far they had come, from cramped corners to sky-kissed openness, carrying old memories while making new ones under a wider, kinder sky.
No comments:
Post a Comment