My Terrace Afternoon

“Ranu….” I heard a frail voice crawling down the stairs calling my name from the queen bedroom. I was having my lunch with my sister across the table. She was busy sharing her lesbian love story which I was least bothered about, but pretended as though I was listening whilst I heard a louder “Ranu…” ascending from above.

“Yes didi? Tell me?” my sister asked grandma on my behalf. “Send your sister upstairs once she’s done. Malati won’t come today, ask her to get the clothes off the clothesline.”

“Ok…” my sister looked at me from besides the entrance Gallery while I sat at the dinner table finishing off the last bits.

“So what should I do?” she asked (referring to her love story). “Lock it up inside your head and let it rest! Go study for tomorrow now!” I waved her off before heading towards granny’s room. “Why are you being so unmindful my darling? I asked you to go to the terrace isn’t it?”

Ah... Indeed I was being unmindful, absentminded and willingly miserable. I went to the terrace and unlocked the door.

Standing on the terrace of our house, I turned around in awe, things are so same, and yet so different these days. For all the talking I had done over the phone in this little space, even the 16-18 video calls last year, this time it really does feel like I live here, and that this is truly a part of our house.

So I was standing on the terrace where there are sensations both new and familiar. The soft “ting” of a bicycle bell often drifts up, a sound frequently heard in the suburban neighborhoods of India; the sound of cars as they pass on the street below or the occasional buzz of a motorcycle. Our house is one surrounded by other buildings, mostly residential ones each of which have gardens with huge trees. I was on the 3rd floor and the tallest nearby is our coconut tree. From the patio below, I hear voices of my neighbor Mr. Sen’s children as they play. I wonder how I never noticed this while talking to someone exactly about something similar, kids, an apartment, future life… Bits of conversation travel up from the sidewalk along the street, but I don’t understand what they are saying.

The sky is blue and clear, with only a few wisps of clouds. It is quite warm in the sun as the day is approaching 30 degrees. To my left in the distance, I see birds flying back after a possible meeting. The trees in the area show their green shades of spring and in the planter boxes on the terrace are palm trees, bamboo, and other shrubs and herbs. As it gets too hot in the sun, I shift over to the clothesline in the shade, doing what I was originally sent for.

I heard a song play on the radio from an open window somewhere down on the left. A song hadn’t graced my ears since school’s final year. It’s weird to forget people. To hear a song, a melody, a chorus even, that brings you somewhere you haven’t been in so long. It happens, sometimes when you you’d never expect it. Often times that feeling is fleeting, the memory fading fast as it appears.

But in reliving all those firsts, I sobered up. I’m left encouraged by the flowery memories I’ve retained of a bygone era.

At the same time though, I’m fearful of how much has left me. Where will I be in fifty years of memorial erosion? Where will these memories of younger me be. Will I remember her or will she abandon me?

The soft chitters and chirps called my attention to the fact that there were sparrows around.

“Are you done darling?”

“Yeah…”

“Do not forget to lock it up, it is getting dark already.”

I sighed, took a look around and kept the clothes inside while locking off the terrace gates. “Yes, it is time…”