the window triptych
living in all three tenses at once.
I often lay on the floor, watching the clouds drift imperceptibly, imagining the earth turn gently.
Looking out through the windows positioned over three walls of my living room-turned-bedroom on our third floor London flat, all I see is the wide-open sky. I have come to cherish working on the floor while looking out at the sky, it lends a groundedness to an otherwise surreal sensation of floating above the world.
The central three-paned window is my private piece of ever-evolving artwork — a triptych that plays with colour, saturation, and gradient as the summer day stretches on, with the sun, gas and water vapour its phenomenal artists.
This may be a creaky old house with poor insulation, but every springtime, the woes of winter are erased by the afternoon sunlight claiming a small patch of the floor of my bedroom. Wherever the sunlight falls, I follow, inching along the floor until I’m perched on the sofa — This is when I know it is late afternoon. From this higher vantage point, some faraway chimneys and rooftop cable antennae emerge from the base of my window-triptych, forcing me closer down to earth.
The greatest change on the canvas, however, is a treetop now visible, its branches swaying luxuriantly against the now faint pink background of the bottom half of this image. As my eyes move upwards, the pink lightens into an eggshell white, then a baby blue, blending finally into a crisp sky blue. There is not a cloud in sight, leaving my sight unanchored, making it seem like the earth itself is standing still.
Across the canvas towards the setting sun, the colours deepen into hues of orange, magenta and crimson — it seems the angels have spilled their jam.
I suddenly realise it is dark inside, so I stand up to turn on the lights. Ever since the third lightbulb of my tri-coned ceiling light fixture blew out, my bedroom is bathed in a warm glow in the evenings. Not quite bright enough for any serious work, and conducive only to all sorts of unwinding, I like to imagine that the dimmed lighting is a universe-sanctioned daily reminder for me to stop staring at data on my computer screen.
I walk over to the window, and for the first time today, notice the world beneath. The streetlights mirror the warm glow of my room, artificial and assertive among the cool, dark tones of dusk. As soon as I open the window, the triptych is dismantled and the outside world rushes in, traffic-first. My ears are hypersensitive so that even the cars cruising along are too loud, let alone the auditory assault of the group of people atop motorbikes revving as part of what I can only imagine is a misguided declaration of freedom.
I think back to my first night in the UK, at all of 18 years old. Having flown out of India for the very first time that morning, I could not sleep because the silence was wholly unsettling. I chuckle. It humbles me to think how much my life has changed, in ways I could not have dreamed, and how much it will continue to change. The bikers bother me a little less.
On the corner of the intersection on the other side of my street is a small guesthouse. In the four years I have lived in this flat, every time I pass by the guesthouse, I imagine my parents staying there while they come visit me. I imagine sharing this life with them for a few days, the one I have entirely because of them but in which they cannot participate. I don’t miss the stifling heat (and society) and constant sensory overload of India, but my heart aches for family.
In two weeks, I move to a new apartment in a new development with my partner. We are giddy with anticipation, picking out furniture and dreaming of waking up next to each other. I am told our new home will have gorgeous views overlooking a nature reserve and never have issues with heating, but I will savour this personal piece of artwork for as long as possible — my very own window triptych.
This essay was entered to the ‘Landscape Mode’ challenge on Vocal.
