Still Looking

...through the window of a drifting, grieving mind

This flash essay is part of a collaborative, constrained-writing challenge undertaken by some members of the Bangalore Substack Writers Group. This month, we used the prompt, ‘A Window Into…’. At the bottom of this snippet, you’ll find links to other essays by fellow writers.

Image credits: Siddarth RG, Siddarth’s Newsletter

Every bit of the room that afternoon was white. The floors, the bed, the sheets, everything. Her jaundiced, yellow body covered in a red blanket was the only pop of colour besides the dry, Andhra winter landscape visible from the window across the room. I stood by the end of her bed and stared out of that frame. My eyes needed somewhere to look other than her dying body.

The thorny bushes were still green, but the cold had drained their colour. The sky was clear. There were hardly any trees around to complement its pale, lifeless blue. I found myself thinking about things that could fix the view. Some yellow flowers, maybe some rain. Yes, rain would be good. A loud, dramatic pour to wash off all the pain. To give the sky a purpose and make its dullness look intentional.

Rain always reminds me of Mumbai.

I remembered watching it from the window of my office on the first floor, in a worn-out building in Mira Road. It was a place put together with donated chairs and makeshift desks. Everything functioned, but nothing matched. From that window, I watched water rise and submerge the floor below. And, I watched people roll up their trousers and tie up their sarees as they planned their exit.

I was new to the city and its uncomfortable, illogical ways. I remember thinking that “bambai ki baarish” is overrated. The road was a dirty, overflowing mess that made me flinch. But I remembered admiring the city’s ability to move on by night.

Ganpati celebrations took over the streets. Lights replaced irritation. Music rose everywhere, insisting on joy. The paralysis of the day was forgotten.

How liberating it must be to forget and move on so easily. To not remain caught in what has already happened. To dance as if happiness were the only purpose of the night.

I tried to remember when I had last felt that kind of joy.

My bestfriend’s wedding. Yes.

The glass on the window in the hotel room was big and polished clean. It framed a city that was not ours with careless beauty. We got ready with a view of high, grey buildings in the background, before making our way to the venue. I remembered watching the guests arrive in colour and glitter. I remembered hugging my friend with the acceptance that my time with her would no longer orbit around our shared past. But most of all, I remembered the music. We had danced that night till our legs hurt.

That entire week had gone by in a blur. The day before I left for the wedding, I recall spending an overcast afternoon in Bangalore with someone I loved in my mint green house. Nothing remarkable happened that day. We sat in the hall with two windows on either side of the balcony behind us. But I remembered how full my life had felt then.

A nurse came in, checked something, and left.

I snapped back into the white room around me. Thoughts of Mumbai, my friend, my home, and the person I loved drifted away. Only her jaundiced body on the white bed remained. Her slow breath was impossible to ignore.

She would be gone soon. I would continue to live in new rooms with different windows, still looking.

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As promised, here are other essays by fellow writers on the topic:

• The window that looks back, by Vaibhav Gupta, Thorough and Unkempt

• A window into the vegetable market by Rakhi Kurup, Rakhi’s Substack

• A window into permission for freedom: The FIRE Number by Shruti Soumya, Same Here

• A window into the fixity and flux by Amit Charles, AC Notes

• A window into a person who shivers on stage by Mihir Chate, Mihir’s Substack

• A window into a life on a sabbatical by Ritika Arora, Ritika Arora – Medium

• A window into bendy morals by Amit Kumar, EarlyNotes

• A window into Kalimpong by Karthik Ballu, Reading This World by Karthik

• A window into what makes a great Quiz Question by Rajat Gururaj, I came, I saw, I floundered

• Three Windows in a Week By Nidhi, General In Her Labyrinth

• A window into a screen-less day by Saniya Zehra Saniya’s Substack