by Nush Sikdar
An evening shot of the field that lies beyond the metal gates of the balcony. The afternoon shower has left ample pools on the grounds, yet the boys continue to play. Picture taken by me.
The sun is beaming.
Each individual ray is visible as the light refracts through the glass. It is 4:30 p.m. The house is silent as everyone else lies content in their afternoon slumber. I, the go-getter, the Western black sheep, stay up in hopes of achieving some degree of work. The cursor blinks and the page remains blank.
I blink. It is now 6 p.m. I slide the glass open to let in the cool evening breeze. Despite the early hour, the sky is nearly pitch black; they never quite figured out time zones here. Rise at 7 and bake until golden brown is the meta. The regularly 110o weather has opted for a much more welcoming 86o today. I sit on the windowsill before the yellow metal gates, staring out into the field beyond. Once littered in young boys hoping to find something in their passion for football, or as I know it, soccer, it now lies empty and silent. Each evening I await their return the following morning.
Some vie for a career, wishing for fame and glory on the field. Some want a space to exercise in a city where the sea of people rises to the neckline. Some need an outlet for escapism. I can understand the last explanation. Though I am lucky enough to only be a visitor, I can still understand. The daily toils of life are much for a child. To wake up, eat, learn, eat, study, eat, study, bathe, study, sleep—then repeat—even the most dedicated cannot hold on forever. I need to feel, as do those boys. To feel the mud between my toes, the monsoon raging amongst the strands of hair stuck to my face. Is this sweat or rain? Does it matter? Only time’s arrow would know.