Windows

I commuted to college in the local trains of Mumbai, back when they were not closed and air-conditioned. A window seat was a morning prize; standing at the door in the evening, the wind rushing against your face felt like a release.

Road traffic drifted below, and the rectangular windows in buildings became silent openings into residents’ lives. Each frame hinted at a story. Some I overheard in passenger conversations—mercifully free of mobile chatter—others I invented, stitching fragments into imagined lives.

A cheerful face waiting at the sill, a child’s hand waving wildly, or a shadowed scowl—all spoke of dramas unfolding in alleys I never entered. People working late at night were rare (no international hours). If someone was still around in office, it indicated a problem.

faces in windows
strangers become companions
for a fleeting ride

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What Do You See #336