Sitting by the window, drinking my coffee, my attention is riveted by the chowkidar of the neighboring compound.
His daily routine is by the clock.
He has just washed and hung his clothes out to dry, and sits with his feet up on a plastic chair.
I know he will light up his cigarette next, and inhale deeply, as he savors every drag.
I creep out slowly.
While he is enjoying this morning indulgence, I take a quick picture of him through a tear in the net that separates our compounds.
I know his routine, because I watch him daily.
Early in the morning, he sings bhajans.
Then I smell the chula, and the distinct aroma of fresh chapattis, cooked over an open fire.
And then he comes to sit in the shade of the trees, having put his clothes out to dry in the sun.
He tends to his little vegetable patch, when the sea breeze sets in.
That done, at 7 pm sharp, he will sit down with a cigarette, and have the same conversation over the phone with someone faraway.
It's always what he cooked, and the weather, after which he wishes them Jai Shri Krishna.
We are in the middle of the pandemic, and we have everything, but are overwhelmed by the isolation, by not being able to travel, by not being able to have a glass of wine in our favorite watering hole.
And here is an old man, in an open ground, completely isolated, with just the trees to protect him from the elements.
No one visits him, and he has no form of recreation, just him and his thoughts.
As I think about this man and his situation, I remember a short story I read in school. It was called 'Purdah' which means curtain.
It is a poignant story, unrelated to this man, but just the commonality of what a man must endure to look after his family.
The man in the story was from a family which had seen better times, but had to move to a small rented home in a nukad.
The doorway is shrouded by a heavy curtain, their only shield from the prying eyes of passers-by .
He has to feed his mother, wife, and five daughters on his meager income, but he is respected by the sheer fact his door has a curtain.
He gets behind the payment of rent, and the house owner, a kabuliwalla, thinks he is lying, as he feels he has the privilege of the privacy of a curtain, which means he is hiding his wealth.
And the kabuliwalla goes one day and pulls down the curtain, demanding his dues.
He is horrified and deeply ashamed of his act, which exposes the condition of the family inside the room, and he leaves.
We go through life, hiding behind a metaphoric curtain, to protect our vulnerability, to protect our hearts and souls from being wounded.
We let few see us naked and as we are.
It is usually because we bared our innermost thoughts and feelings to someone we trusted, both the chaff and the grain.
And then the trust was broken.
So vulnerability returns.
And we retreat again, to protect our souls and our wounded hearts.
Like the man with the curtain, we learn to put our metaphoric curtain up, and let no one see what’s behind.
THE END
Things to know about Sangeeta, the author of the piece you just read: She is a friend of mine from my advertising days in Chennai. We worked in HTA together. She now designs bespoke clothing. When she is not doing that, Sangeeta writes marvelous musings - like the one you just read.
