Tulips by Tammy Pineda

The Daily

Columns & Archives

Along with the daily feature articles from our columnists, read works from our past contributors in the categories of prose, poetry and visual art, alongside interviews and other musings.


The World: Through My Balcony

This world offers numerous sights to our eyes. Some are a sight which we love to gaze at, while some are a sight we prefer not to lay our eyes on. But the range of vision through my balcony in spite of being limited to a concrete building, captures the diversity of human behavior precisely. Traditionally you would expect a scene of serenity and environment that brings you joy, as the most of us experience on our Instagram feeds. Alas, it is nothing like that but instead a dusky apartment which looks nothing less than an old person that has gone through a lot.

It is a twelve story building with pale peach colored walls and staircases, looking as if it can fall down at any given moment; dull and vanilla, as you would imagine it to be. The sun, that rises from behind the building, making an uneven horizon in the busy morning, leaves me on the pedestal. The amber rays of the sun makes it look like a gleaming castle waiting to be explored. There lives an old lady on the sixth floor who has decorated her balcony as if it was her little jungle. Watering her hanging little flower pots from the roof and the tiny edible plants religiously, seeming as if she wants them to remain lively forever. On the tenth floor, the owner has covered his space with translucent glass windows, as if he had made his balcony a tiny little room to escape the amusing world outside; why would someone even do that? There are these other little galleries, where I witness people at sixes and sevens, as if they have no ulterior goals ahead of them, where a girl is crying while speaking over phone and a middle aged man is smoking and blatantly staring at the sky. And of course, the balcony on the eighth floor, exact opposite to that of mine, where a lady worships the Tulsi plant every morning like my mother does, praying for a better future for her children, hanging out washed clothes for drying and coming out occasionally to check on the weather. On the staircase that passes through the middle of the building, I see the children play hide and seek, and the workers having their meals.

Subsequently, the night falls upon us, when all the lights go down and people go into the deep sleep. Another morning rises, and the human race wakes up, convincingly or unconvincingly, grooves into the reality. Sometimes I wonder, despite of growing up in this concrete jungle and the claustrophobic environment that we live in, we still get to witness so many dreams and unexplored stories.

Written By: Amya Roy



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