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It’s a dull evening. The scanty beam of sunlight that usually beautifies the dusk has gone missing. Instead, misty drizzle followed by pale sheets of rain lodge in my window panes. My extensive search for a perfect place to write finally ends when I sit by the sill. The window sill. It doesn’t open on to magical skies or colorful balconies but blatantly brings home the kitchen episodes of one of the neighbors whom I have never met till date. Their plain kitchen walls aren’t something I am fond of. However, when I put my writing glasses on, the window sill becomes an open door full of little surprises.
Most often than not, I get to watch through the window sill, a flock of birds that caw full-throated songs as if trying to break the bubble of issues around them. For a lonely observer who curates music for life, the fuss feels no less than a syncopated outcome of one thousand flutes.
The tiny ants line up along the window’s edges and I subconsciously pull myself back so they continue to march past in all its glory. They thrive but I feel happier. Oh, the peace that prevails when the space sanctum is shared!
Although far from the window sill, I feel the presence of sky-high trees whose ornamental leaves rattle in unison when temple-kissed by the gusting breeze. God bless the roots, may they stand the test of time.
Earth here is clothed with everything concrete. The window sill, however, grants me the gift of hope, for when I give the boring wall an uncomplaining once-over, I could, but see a wild-flower thriving from a futile edge promising to bear more blossoms in the days to come.