I am not a morning person. I spend days in a trance, hallucinating under the influence of a light slumber and myriad passing thoughts. Some I get to put down on paper, some settle under my eyes as dreams. And yet, we’re hardworking beings, and at any given hour of the day, find it easier to put ourselves to work than to bask in nothingness. Comb your hair, make tea, learn, give, take, speak. Connect. Detach. Begin. Arrive.
But on some evenings, somewhere around 4pm, I find a light creep up and gently lay its hand on me. It’s the afternoon sun, which having made its daily round, arrives at my window for a casual chat. My consciousness is asleep, and it knows. The warmth on my ankles wakes me to with a jolt–my pasty skin turning pink under the heat, my tired eyes looking up from the addictive screen, and my heart suddenly excited at this intimate dance with the elements. I’m suddenly aware of the curling hair tickling my cheek. The money plant by my window has been tapping against the glass, while the wind has been howling for my attention all day. I can’t help but straighten my legs out, smoothening out the wrinkled pink bedsheet under the soles of my feet. More of me is exposed to the golden light now, and all of me is suddenly warm.
Evenings in Mumbai are magical. From my perch on the twenty second floor, the sky seems to take over the city in these hours. By the rule of third, it only takes up a little space in the canvas. But that’s just an illusion. Its actually an endless expanse, and that’s visible in the thousand shades of colour that take space over and around the entire landscape. But by 5pm, the flirting with the sun has come to pass, and I’m once again immersed in the way my fingers feeling against the clicking keys of my laptop. So by 6pm, the ball of fire decides to make a grand gesture.
Something orange catches my eye. Looking up, I find the entire city awash in an orange glow. The sun, sinking in a sea of clouds, refuses to be ignored. A deep red streak mingles with a hundred shades of yellow across the sky, painting it in hues of orange I never knew existed. The single-storey brick houses–till now laying comatose in the shadow of Mumbai’s skyscrapers–now add life to the painting, with the grime on their walls camouflaged in the brownish tint of twilight. Somewhere closer, fresh dosa batter is sizzling on a burning pan, its smell wafting into my room with the breeze. Somewhere in the distance, beyond the Bandra-Worli Sea Link, a white light crashes against the sea, making it dance like tinsel streamers in the wind.
This city is never quiet. It’s never dull, never sleeping. But in fleeting moments of awareness, the elements take over the conversation. As the toasty tin sheds begin to cool down and the palms begin to sway, as bulbs flicker on and the sky lights on fire, as the doves take flight after a day or fussing above my window, I am awake like I’ve never been before.amcorper mattis, pulvinar dapibus leo.
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