From My Stairwell in the Evening

From My Stairwell in the Evening

It was evening. On the stairway looking overlooking the city, I began to feel cool. The temperature had descended with the sun and, so, what had been one-hundred and fifteen fahrenheit at the heat of the day was now only 80 and the air felt soft and restful on my skin. The city beyond the cement of my stairwell was slowly succumbing to dusk, and the bright, though sun-faded clothing on the roof-top patio’s clothes-lines fluttered in the breeze that came now, as it did every evening at this time, from the east. The great tattered sheets of paper from a many-storied building far to the North (It was to my left since I was looking east and basking in the evening’s soft wind) which was perpetually unfinished was flapping in that blessed breeze also, like my hair. It (the east wind) had a way of washing over the city at night that felt cleansing in a double sense, like an ablution. This was the time of the evening prayers. They would come from the Hindu temples as well as the Mosques, and so from my stairwell I heard them, in the distance, singing and wailing, and I too offered my prayers up. And in India, in places and times as these, you can almost feel your prayers, sometimes, as if they were rising up, like incense, to the every-deepening purple sky.
It was that evening, after a month of waiting and watching, that I saw – for the first time – some monkeys, on the roof across the way and further down: The smaller looking up at the larger who was moving its tail slowly and fluidly as it licked its leg.



9 thoughts on “From My Stairwell in the Evening”

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *