Date: 29.11.2007
Time: 5:30 p.m.
Having a bit of time on my hands these days, I’ve been indulging in haunting the terrace once again. I usually go upstairs in the late afternoon, with a book and some music, perch myself on the water tank (which has a remarkable view of the neighbourhood, by the way), and read, listen to music and take in my surroundings all at the same time. Today wasn’t very different as I flew to my favourite haunt at around four and sombrely seated myself in my usual place. However, a few things did occur that kept me rather amused.
While I was comfortably reading and looking up occasionally to observe an orange sun slowly turn red and then disappear in the horizon, I noticed an old gentleman pacing about his terrace, two buildings away. The expression on his face was worth a million words for he looked stunned beyond belief when he noticed a scatty-looking girl with an untidy pony-tail in a red T-shirt on the highest water-tank of the neighbourhood, sitting cross-legged and poring over a book. His eyes were crinkled in confusion and disbelief, his brows were tightly knitted and his mouth formed a round ‘O’. In fact, he kept blinking and glancing my way to convince himself that my presence there was not an illusion. I was highly tickled and had to control the urge to wave cheerily at him from my perch and shock him even more. Yes, I do make an attempt to be less rude to people. Sometimes, that is.
As I continued to sit there and read, with my music play-list behaving benevolently towards me, I spotted a pot-bellied gentleman on a westward terrace feeding seeds to a flock of white and grey pigeons. Other birds flew by solemnly and an orange-beaked playful ’un decided to play hide and seek among the jutting out pipes on my terrace and an old, forgotten antenna while chirping happily about its day. A crow dancing on the edge of the water-tank flew away looking rather affronted when I waved and spoke to it. I wonder why though, for I am usually well-liked by these birds.
The dim light filtering through the clouds grew weary of resisting the power of darkness and slowly ebbed away into myriad enigmatic shades of grey. A slight nip in the air made the approaching evening seem pleasant and welcoming. The sun had set by then and I had also finished the short story that I was reading. I therefore decided not to offer myself as a live sacrifice to the blood-thirsty mosquitoes out there and began my descent into the mortal plane.
My footsteps echoed in the desolate staircase and I slipped into agreeable reveries, untroubled by all that usually keeps me preoccupied and distressed.
End: 6:00 p.m.
Time: 5:30 p.m.
Having a bit of time on my hands these days, I’ve been indulging in haunting the terrace once again. I usually go upstairs in the late afternoon, with a book and some music, perch myself on the water tank (which has a remarkable view of the neighbourhood, by the way), and read, listen to music and take in my surroundings all at the same time. Today wasn’t very different as I flew to my favourite haunt at around four and sombrely seated myself in my usual place. However, a few things did occur that kept me rather amused.
While I was comfortably reading and looking up occasionally to observe an orange sun slowly turn red and then disappear in the horizon, I noticed an old gentleman pacing about his terrace, two buildings away. The expression on his face was worth a million words for he looked stunned beyond belief when he noticed a scatty-looking girl with an untidy pony-tail in a red T-shirt on the highest water-tank of the neighbourhood, sitting cross-legged and poring over a book. His eyes were crinkled in confusion and disbelief, his brows were tightly knitted and his mouth formed a round ‘O’. In fact, he kept blinking and glancing my way to convince himself that my presence there was not an illusion. I was highly tickled and had to control the urge to wave cheerily at him from my perch and shock him even more. Yes, I do make an attempt to be less rude to people. Sometimes, that is.
As I continued to sit there and read, with my music play-list behaving benevolently towards me, I spotted a pot-bellied gentleman on a westward terrace feeding seeds to a flock of white and grey pigeons. Other birds flew by solemnly and an orange-beaked playful ’un decided to play hide and seek among the jutting out pipes on my terrace and an old, forgotten antenna while chirping happily about its day. A crow dancing on the edge of the water-tank flew away looking rather affronted when I waved and spoke to it. I wonder why though, for I am usually well-liked by these birds.
The dim light filtering through the clouds grew weary of resisting the power of darkness and slowly ebbed away into myriad enigmatic shades of grey. A slight nip in the air made the approaching evening seem pleasant and welcoming. The sun had set by then and I had also finished the short story that I was reading. I therefore decided not to offer myself as a live sacrifice to the blood-thirsty mosquitoes out there and began my descent into the mortal plane.
My footsteps echoed in the desolate staircase and I slipped into agreeable reveries, untroubled by all that usually keeps me preoccupied and distressed.
End: 6:00 p.m.
