An Ode to the Sky
Chaitanya Joshi, Creative Director, writes from the city where land is expensive, and the sky is rare
Whenever I visit a new city, I make it a point to visit the local zoo. The animals enclosed in moats here, are generally a bit calmer than the ones in cages.
Maybe, because the open sky gives them a semblance of freedom.
When I shifted from Pune to Mumbai, it was a bit of a cultural shock. And one of the things I missed the most, were the balconies. A fair amount of carpet area, in almost every Puneri home, was dedicated to rocking chairs, cycles arranged in chronological order, or (socially distant) gossiping with the aunty in the next balcony. It was also an area where mud flowed out of pots adorned with basil, roses, curry leaves and chilly, when an over-enthusiastic 4 -year old watered them. And nobody cared.
And most importantly, it was a place where you could fall asleep on a mat, staring at the sky.
Mumbai, in its hunger for powder rooms and marble floored living rooms (and sometimes an extra bedroom for the kid), gobbled up balconies without a second thought. Most kids in Mumbai thus lost a culture of running to the balcony and looking up at the sky, when they heard an airplane.
I realised Mumbai is a city of windows (tinted, curtained, closed) and not balconies. The towering Mumbai skyscrapers are also packed together like people in the Mumbai locals. Any attempts at looking out of windows, are returned with awkward eye contacts followed by curtains drawn on your face. Throwing your life open in balconies is not for people with closed minds. Thus, the only place where the balcony still finds its place in the hearts of the Mumbaikars is the bustling and gregarious chawl. And here too, the sky plays hide-and-seek between redeveloped towers, webs of wires and illegal hoardings.
When the lockdown was announced, I moved in with my in-laws (without asking now that I think of it). One kitchen, more people, it all made sense. But cooped up in a room that tripled up as my bedroom, office and gym, I missed the open sky even more. In these months of oscillating between a chair and a bed, I discovered that this building had a terrace perched on the 24th floor. One half of it, which had a glittering skyline, was occupied with a mobile tower and a generator. The other half though opened to the sea (being gulped down, sip by sip, by the under-construction coastal road) and the wide-open sky.
My wife is very flummoxed by my terrace fetish. Every night by about 10:30, I regularly go truant from the house, generally missing out on the democratically elected Netflix binges. Perhaps instead of transitioning from a 14-inch screen to a 50 inch (or 6.5) one, I find the infinite expanse of the sky soothing to my eyes. And my mind. Of course, there are no stars (Mumbai, duh!) but Venus shows up sometimes. And the moon too, which is also the reason why a horde of pati vrata women do gather here on Karwa Chauth. Some of them (decked in designer mangalsutras) look at the newly emerged tower and say “Yeh bade log ne itna ooncha ghar kyun banaate hai? Chaand aadha ghanta late dikhta hai.”
While having my regular (face to face) meetings with the sky, I have come to believe that this terrace is a living, breathing, blowing entity. Sometimes during its mood swings, it gets so windy that it will not let you light a cigarette. It also acts mischievous sometimes. Like on the said Karwa Chauth, it decided to douse the lamp (apshakun max) exactly when it came in front of the husband. But when am alone, surprisingly it gives a very understanding vibe. A gentle, caressing breeze after a long mind-numbing day. The sound of waves dampening the roar of excavators. And a silent sky, which is yet to be classified as an essential.
It is June now. Within a few days, the alluring sunset and the dots of fishing boats will disappear beyond the clouds. You would be able to see daily 30-second journeys of the monsoon showers, from the horizon to your face.
Soon, even if Mumbai opens up or not, the terrace and whatever little sky is left, will go under lockdown.
