The Hidden Terrace
Written in Bangalore, 2/29/2008
Sitting alone on the terrace, high above the street,
Cloaked in darkness in my exclusive nighttime retreat.
I enter the world of my mantra and lock inside its sacred space,
With eyelid shades pulled down, this is a private place.
As evening shadows turn to dark, I sit still, facing east.
No one comes up here much,
Except crows and pigeons as they look for food to eat,
A sloping solar panel is my only nighttime companion,
Positioned to soak up light and heat from Surya, Lord of the Sun.
Too subtle to express in words, a breeze comes gently past,
A gift from Lord Ayyappan, I know his sweet caress,
With each returning breath of wind, his love he manifests,
It always gets my attention – I know it comes from him,
I stop what I am doing to feel his presence in the wind.
Each evening as I sit here in my secluded rooftop location,
I gain access to a play, a show – the evening’s presentation,
Opening my eyes, I see this nightly drama in my line of vision,
Like a never-ending virtual reality panoramic television.
Directly across the street is a brand new apartment building,
It acts as the stage for the dramas that are unfolding,
Clean and freshly painted, a part of Bangalore’s building frenzy,
In the entire Asian continent it is the fastest growing city.
From my front-row seat I can see several continuing plays,
As people in the apartments live their lives across the way,
Windows flung wide open with the curtains pulled aside,
I’m drawn into these simple dramas as the world goes on outside.
Like the Alfred Hitchcock film, Rear Window, with actor Jimmy Stewart,
Watching his neighbors across a courtyard, attentive and alert,
I, too, watch the characters in this play, but I do not know their names,
My camera mind absorbs each image and my brain records each frame.
Instead of photographic images to project these episodes that are always commercial free,
I have chosen to convey my impressions through the medium of poetry,
You, the reader, are free to create your own palette of colors, sounds and sights,
As I tell you what I see and feel when I watch this show each night.
There’s a woman in a kitchen, washing some metal plates and cups,
They clang, bang and clatter ‘cause the sound really carries this high up,
An Amma in her kitchen, wearing an orange and yellow sari,
Is preparing the evening meal for her husband, parents and son,
On shelves behind are small containers with spices, herbs and seeds,
I see her as she reaches back to select the ones she needs.
Performing a kind of culinary chemistry, she creates chapatti, rice, sambhar,
She also puts on the table some mango pickles in a jar,
But she has something else to serve, not found in the shelves above,
Most potent of all ingredients – the magic potion of her love.
A boy, maybe eight, runs up the stairs, then down again,
It beats doing his homework – maybe after dinner he’ll do it then,
But it’s not time for dinner yet, so he keeps running up the stairs,
I see him, but he does not see me – he is totally unaware.
On a corner balcony, a man is washing out his clothes,
Probably he is single or his wife would do all those.
Each night he washes several things, then hangs them way up high,
With the gentle breeze of Bangalore they won’t take long to dry.
This same young man uses his balcony for yogasana exercise,
He moves with ease and confidence – he has them memorized,
In time, he’ll probably marry, and he’ll bring her here to live,
Since he has a stable home and job, he has a lot to give.
A woman with long braided hair is sitting on her bed,
Her husband sits down beside her, I think they’re newlyweds,
Both have just come home from work, they smile and laugh and talk,
Moving a little closer they lock in an embrace,
So great to be back home again, back in their special place,
Their body language speaks clearly of their genuine affection,
A heartfelt long unhurried kiss reveals their strong mutual attraction.
This is a quiet relaxing show, slow-moving, rather plotless,
Like a documentary, the stories seem long and endless,
The characters determine the dialog, there’s no scripted planned
excitement,
The story flows like a gentle meandering river with its hidden secret currents,
Twisting here and turning there, its direction is not evident,
If I tire of watching all these dramas, I can glance over to my right,
And see the airplanes leaving Bangalore on their scheduled evening flights,
Their colored lights blink off and on, outlining their dimensions,
Some are short domestic flights, others have distant destinations.
The passengers are all seated, reading books and magazines,
Or they’re watching in-flight movies on individual viewing screens,
Some talk to fellow passengers, while others want to sleep,
Some gaze out the windows because they have the window seats.
They see the lights of Bangalore and think about its people,
This is a curious connection, these invisible thoughts that flow,
Mine about the people on the plane, and theirs about me here below.
But now I return to the nighttime serial, and to the stars of the evening show.
I feel like I know these people, for I, too, have played their roles.
I feel their fatigue after coming home from work – I eat the evening meal,
I know their passing pleasures, how they think and act and feel.
Glad to be back home again, I wash my clothes and dishes,
I run up and down the stairs, and I give my husband kisses.
I’ll probably never meet these people, the actors in this play,
In the morning all is quiet again, the “stars” have gone away,
Not much activity, I do not hear a sound,
But the apartment theatre will come back to life again when its stars are homeward bound.
After my evening meditation the curtain will rise again,
And I’ll look straight ahead and see another episode begin.
Cloaked in darkness in my exclusive nighttime retreat.
I enter the world of my mantra and lock inside its sacred space,
With eyelid shades pulled down, this is a private place.
As evening shadows turn to dark, I sit still, facing east.
No one comes up here much,
Except crows and pigeons as they look for food to eat,
A sloping solar panel is my only nighttime companion,
Positioned to soak up light and heat from Surya, Lord of the Sun.
Too subtle to express in words, a breeze comes gently past,
A gift from Lord Ayyappan, I know his sweet caress,
With each returning breath of wind, his love he manifests,
It always gets my attention – I know it comes from him,
I stop what I am doing to feel his presence in the wind.
Each evening as I sit here in my secluded rooftop location,
I gain access to a play, a show – the evening’s presentation,
Opening my eyes, I see this nightly drama in my line of vision,
Like a never-ending virtual reality panoramic television.
Directly across the street is a brand new apartment building,
It acts as the stage for the dramas that are unfolding,
Clean and freshly painted, a part of Bangalore’s building frenzy,
In the entire Asian continent it is the fastest growing city.
From my front-row seat I can see several continuing plays,
As people in the apartments live their lives across the way,
Windows flung wide open with the curtains pulled aside,
I’m drawn into these simple dramas as the world goes on outside.
Like the Alfred Hitchcock film, Rear Window, with actor Jimmy Stewart,
Watching his neighbors across a courtyard, attentive and alert,
I, too, watch the characters in this play, but I do not know their names,
My camera mind absorbs each image and my brain records each frame.
Instead of photographic images to project these episodes that are always commercial free,
I have chosen to convey my impressions through the medium of poetry,
You, the reader, are free to create your own palette of colors, sounds and sights,
As I tell you what I see and feel when I watch this show each night.
There’s a woman in a kitchen, washing some metal plates and cups,
They clang, bang and clatter ‘cause the sound really carries this high up,
An Amma in her kitchen, wearing an orange and yellow sari,
Is preparing the evening meal for her husband, parents and son,
On shelves behind are small containers with spices, herbs and seeds,
I see her as she reaches back to select the ones she needs.
Performing a kind of culinary chemistry, she creates chapatti, rice, sambhar,
She also puts on the table some mango pickles in a jar,
But she has something else to serve, not found in the shelves above,
Most potent of all ingredients – the magic potion of her love.
A boy, maybe eight, runs up the stairs, then down again,
It beats doing his homework – maybe after dinner he’ll do it then,
But it’s not time for dinner yet, so he keeps running up the stairs,
I see him, but he does not see me – he is totally unaware.
On a corner balcony, a man is washing out his clothes,
Probably he is single or his wife would do all those.
Each night he washes several things, then hangs them way up high,
With the gentle breeze of Bangalore they won’t take long to dry.
This same young man uses his balcony for yogasana exercise,
He moves with ease and confidence – he has them memorized,
In time, he’ll probably marry, and he’ll bring her here to live,
Since he has a stable home and job, he has a lot to give.
A woman with long braided hair is sitting on her bed,
Her husband sits down beside her, I think they’re newlyweds,
Both have just come home from work, they smile and laugh and talk,
Moving a little closer they lock in an embrace,
So great to be back home again, back in their special place,
Their body language speaks clearly of their genuine affection,
A heartfelt long unhurried kiss reveals their strong mutual attraction.
This is a quiet relaxing show, slow-moving, rather plotless,
Like a documentary, the stories seem long and endless,
The characters determine the dialog, there’s no scripted planned
excitement,
The story flows like a gentle meandering river with its hidden secret currents,
Twisting here and turning there, its direction is not evident,
If I tire of watching all these dramas, I can glance over to my right,
And see the airplanes leaving Bangalore on their scheduled evening flights,
Their colored lights blink off and on, outlining their dimensions,
Some are short domestic flights, others have distant destinations.
The passengers are all seated, reading books and magazines,
Or they’re watching in-flight movies on individual viewing screens,
Some talk to fellow passengers, while others want to sleep,
Some gaze out the windows because they have the window seats.
They see the lights of Bangalore and think about its people,
This is a curious connection, these invisible thoughts that flow,
Mine about the people on the plane, and theirs about me here below.
But now I return to the nighttime serial, and to the stars of the evening show.
I feel like I know these people, for I, too, have played their roles.
I feel their fatigue after coming home from work – I eat the evening meal,
I know their passing pleasures, how they think and act and feel.
Glad to be back home again, I wash my clothes and dishes,
I run up and down the stairs, and I give my husband kisses.
I’ll probably never meet these people, the actors in this play,
In the morning all is quiet again, the “stars” have gone away,
Not much activity, I do not hear a sound,
But the apartment theatre will come back to life again when its stars are homeward bound.
After my evening meditation the curtain will rise again,
And I’ll look straight ahead and see another episode begin.