INSIDE OUT
Exposed, yet secluded, we pay homage to the balcony
As strange as it may sound, the writer is the one animal that was rather unaffected by the restrictions that the lockdown imposed on him. Maybe a gross generalisation, maybe not. But the writer that I write about here definitely got some work done during the days of solitude that were imposed upon him by someone other than himself. His only outlet to the world was his balcony. The balcony was a luxury not all could afford. In these uncertain times of the lockdown, the writer was grateful as ever for having a place to work from. His work was never really just typing out stories. It was observing real people and their behaviour. The stories came from them... he merely gave them form. The balcony was the perfect escape – a small cosy place only crowded with him and his thoughts. A key to creative freedom. Notebook and pen in hand, steaming cup of black coffee by his side, he began to scour the rest of the balconies in his building in search of stories.
First, his eyes fell on the retired Army man on one of the top floors. Mehta? Batra? Ugh. He forgot. Or he didn’t really ever know his name. Anyway, what’s in a name? What could the man be thinking? That was the first thing he asked himself. He knew. The man, while he smoked away, probably wondered if his fight at the border was worth it. All those years of toiling away, facing the uncertainty of a bullet or a bomb, led to this? Humans tired him. The writer couldn’t see his face clearly. But he imagined a scowl. And then the Army man lifted a glass that could only have held a stiff drink and put it to his lips. The writer knew he was right in his assessment. He just put down a word in capitals. CYNIC.
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