The Emptiness of Others' Houses

Empty apartment blocks loom over the lake, on the boundaries of which cows poke around for morsels. Weekend parties, games in the pool, silhouettes of smokers on the balconies- packed their bags and got onto flights when the university announced the leave. A vacation come early, for some. Dreaded trips back home, for others. The graduating class collectively wrung their hands; what about us, they moaned, we didn't even get a photo together. 

In a few flats, the silhouttes didn't leave. In the absence of any means of asking them why they didn't leave, I concocted my own theories. Maybe they couldn't get tickets before the lockdown was announced, maybe they like it here. 

Maybe this is home. 

During the pre-pandemic days, I left the window open at nights. From my bed, I could see the college students in the fifth floor stringing up lights for Diwali, posing for pictures and generally having a good time. They never turned off their living room light. After a disturbed stretch of sleep, at dawn, I would wake up to see the light in the living room on a facade of darkness. A sign of the intimacy we share with people we don't know. 

The only other sign of life at that hour were the shadows of the gulmohar trees on the apartment building, cast by the light from the common areas. 

The week before the lockdown was announced, the lights started going off. By the end of that week, the entire apartment complex was in darkness, except for a few windows where the lights still signalled the staying back of the silhouttes. The living room of my dawn awakenings was darkened. I had to seek new intimacies. 

The clang of steel utensils, sound of wet clothes being wrung before being hung on the clothesline. Noises that indicated the lives within the walls. At dusk, I wait for the lights to come on. In my own flat, often the only light is from the laptop screen; the only noise, old SNL skits on YouTube. The only movement, that of me stumbling around in the dark as I fill my water bottles. 

At night, I go to the roof to look for more indications of lives being lived in this place, in this time. In a proximity that probably means nothing except that it exists. 

The light from a window that I cannot see casts a glow on a distant wall. Someone moves, and I see their silhoutte on the wall. 

Signs of life being lived in a pandemic. 

At dawn, I get up to peer through my window to see if someone has left their living room lights on. Evidently, the new source of intimacy that I have latched on to, they are not wasteful with their electricity. 

On the walls of the building, the gulmohar still casts its shadows. Some nights, when summer halts all movement, even that of the air, not a branch moves. But on days like today, the branches dance to the tune of the breeze.