I live on the thirteenth floor. Yes, THE 13Th floor. My apartment complex is all of 14 floors. Effectively I am at the top of the world. (That’s the view from my window!)
When I look out of the window, late at night, I feel like the king of the world. Or the "Old Man" up there. To be closer home to my heart, I feel like Luke Skywalker!
Sometimes it gets very lonely at the top. Literally. Not metaphorically.
I’ll have to get used to the loneliness now. Pretty soon, the “sometimes” shall turn into perpetuity. And then I shall have to scream.
Like I did last week.
Yes I screamed. Mustered up all the air that I could in my tar filled lungs and smoke battered chest. Turned up the amplification in my throat and let it out!
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaargh . . . Until the tears started rolling down like water from a hosepipe, attached to a tap cranked to full pressure, by an errant gardener in a hurry to water the plants and scram. In record time they formed a puddle on the sill. A silly mosquito even tried swimming in it.
I thought I was being melodramatic, until I saw the mosquito drowning in my deep pool of sorrow.
My company these days is lethal to any living creature around me.
It seems it is no coincidence that The Lord has blessed me with my own flat in Mumbai. A proper miracle considering the fact that it is relatively unpopulated despite it being bang in the heart the city.
Another irony there. I’m in the heart of the city. I am pain. The city’s heart is in pain. And the pain is already beginning to get to the living creatures.
I am pain.
I am sorrow.
I am the catharsis of all the agony felt by my forefathers, distilled into my genes.
That was pretty much the line of thought when I did the boo-hoo act last week. Then, I saw the view from my window once again. I saw the twinkling lights far in the distance.
They are little beacons of hope from a slum. A place where life has lesser hope of survival than a crate of eggs in a schooner sailing against a storm. When they light up every night, I am reminded of the strings of lights that we put up to celebrate the festival of lights - Diwali. A festival that celebrates good over evil. Light over dark. Thoughts of hope over the conspirational, brooding darkness of despair. . .
The slum lights are a constant celebration of lights. A celebration of losses, gains, pains. Endings that lead into new beginnings. A struggle for hope. Every day is a new victory for them. The twinkling lights at night are a celebration of the triumphs of that day.
So, in Gloria Gaynor’s immortal lyrics – I WILL SURVIVE, hey, hey!
And, yes, the puddle of tears did dry up. The mosquito it seems hadn't drowned in my pool of misery. He had simply gotten drunk in it. It very drunkenly flew off on heavy wings. While I flew to bed with a lighter heart.
