Skip to main content

Tinted windows

I picked my way gingerly, dodging the still cool evidence of the monsoon showers
Hitching my skirt up, no glance to spare for the faces I had come looking for.
A naked toddler stumbled, carried by the inertia of his steps,
Curious, towards a pair of pigeons pecking intently
At the leftover of the street kids who live on crumbs.
My mind caught in the ‘simplicity’ of the moment,
Perhaps should capture it for my ‘experimental travelogue’.

Eyes traveled down the curves towards that most endearing part of the human body
And, arrested there, at his now not so endearing bottom
An immediate sidestep, I danced a tango with the still warm evidence of his effluence
Eyes snapped back to the ground
Jumped over the pools and rushed towards the parking lot
All but fell into the airconditioned interior
As if sucked in by the vacuum created by the difference in temperature
Sitting back and rolling my tinted windows up
I sighed and looked out affectionately at the poetic beauty that had beckoned me here.

The conversation turned to the daily grind of urban life
And the solutions devised by technology to break the monotony of city
I smiled condescendingly.

Comments

Anonymous said…
True, I see the world through my tinted windows. I am consumed with selfish thoughts. Inadvertently, I happen to see the plight of people living in misery. I spare a few fleeting moments to think about THEM.But not until I am safely back into my cocoon, behind my tinted windows. Then, I feel like an angel for sparing those fleeting moments. Then, I forget about it. Until another accidental encounter with the reality.But this window between me and the reality is not outside me. The external barrier can be easily rolled down. The one inside, I don't know how to deal with it yet. I haven't bothered to deal with it. The shameful truth is - I don't really care.

Popular posts from this blog

The Obstacle Course to Being

Today, I got news that a close friend is in the early days of what might be a difficult pregnancy. Richard Dawkins’ opening remarks of his book “Unweaving the Rainbow: Science, Delusion and the Appetite for Wonder” came to mind. He marvels at how statistic-numbingly lucky each one of us is to have survived the odds of a sperm and a ovum fusing and giving rise to a living cell. How we are a nanoscopically small number of the total combinations that are possible for the human genome. But as a developmental biologist, for me, this is just the starting point of the great obstacle course. The hurdles that the embryo will clear in the mother’s womb to make it to light and sunshine, warmth and fragrance, and the colours and music of this, our second home.  We see numerous reminders of each step that falters, in the birth defects that abound our world (according to statistics, 3-6% of infants born). A less than perfect infant brings anguish for the mother and potential disa...

Autism: Accepting our differences

April is Autism Awareness Month Priyam was the life of the party at the day care centre. A bright-eyed boy who captured the heart of the caretakers and played with abandon. Sometime after his second birthday, all this started changing. He stopped playing with his toys, he seemed more interested in organizing them now. He stopped talking, not even responding even when called by name. He stopped smiling at people and making eye contact. Then the rhythmic movements started; rocking his body, banging his head or repeatedly tapping on the table. One day he banged his head so much that when his father came hurriedly summoned by the caretaker, there was a trickle of blood running down his face. That was his last day at the centre; they refused to keep him after that.  Nancy was different. Growing up in a family with siblings and grandparents, she was used to people. But outsiders were studiously ignored. She heard all the questions and comments, but never acknowledged them. Loud noises, r...

Real or Imagined?

Real or Imagined? Right now I have a time-lapse experiment in progress at home. An infant beginning to appreciate that a person disappearing behind the curtain is not gone, just hidden; now a toddler who enlists me in pretend-play.  The neuronal circuits necessary for imagination are busy being built. The history of western art charts an analogous course for human civilization. Early examples of art relied heavily on ‘true-to-type’ representation of reality. From ancient Greece to Rome to Renaissance, art was all about how well you could recreate in stone or canvas what you see, as you see it. Parisians graduated to Impressionism when one day in 1874, Claude Monet’s ‘Impression, Sunrise’ (Impression, soleil levant) was unveiled. A few seemingly random strokes of paint on canvas, enough for us to visualize the luminescent descent of the sun into the sea, was equated to an unfinished wallpaper by the art connoisseurs of 19th century. How is it that a few daubs of pain...