Through the Glass, Beyond Time

Where blooms press closer, and thoughts wander farther

A quiet study of change, continuity, and the unfolding universe

I spend much of my time in a small space overlooking the road outside. To call it a study would be misleading, for it is neither a room nor a place of intellectual pursuit. It is a balcony, converted into a retreat, where thought and observation unfold more naturally than in any formal study. The glass panels are shaded with sun-control films, keeping out the day’s harshness while allowing me to watch the world unseen. From this hidden vantage, I witness the theatre of life—trees stretching skyward, birds darting in play, bees humming their eternal labour, and people moving along the road in front of my home, each carrying their own stories.

New Rhythms, New Walkers

This morning, I saw a teenager walking briskly with his mother toward the bus stop. I have watched this mother-son pair ever since I moved here a dozen years ago. When I first noticed him, he was a reluctant child, dragging his feet behind his mother to school while she strode ahead and urged him forward. Today, the roles had reversed: he walked with confidence, his mother following with quiet pride. In their simple walk, I saw the arc of growth—the silent transformation from dependence to independence. Time had sculpted him into a young man, and her into a witness. What a beautiful transition!

Others on my “watch list” have also changed. The children who once filled the street with noise and games have left for university, their laughter replaced by a new generation. A couple of the senior citizens who used to walk their dogs regularly are no longer seen; their companions have vanished into memory, too. New walkers, new dogs, new rhythms have taken their place. A few stray cats once frequented our garden, one of them majestic as a miniature lion, composed and dignified. He and his contemporaries have disappeared, replaced by new feline visitors.

The avenue trees outside have grown into a canopy, offering shade and shelter to passersby. Even the trees in my garden have stretched taller. The avocado tree has exceeded expectations, its branches reaching into my neighbour’s balcony as if to remind us that growth cannot be contained. Yet I trim them occasionally, so as not to trouble my neighbour.

The Vanishing Smoke

An elderly gentleman used to walk through my neighbourhood almost every day, late in the morning. He walked slowly down the road, cigarette in hand, puffing away like a steam engine, leaving behind little whirls of smoke that curled and dissolved in the sunlight.

I often thought he wasn’t allowed to smoke at home, which explained those regular late morning walks: a daily parade of defiance wrapped in tobacco haze. Though I quit smoking a quarter of a century ago, there was a tinge of envy whenever I saw him smoking. Not the cigarette itself, but the genes that seemed to grant him such fortune—still walking, still smoking, still alive to enjoy his forbidden pleasure.

But lately, no smoke signals rise from the road. The steam engine seems to have fallen silent, its puffing gone. He has vanished—leaving behind only the memory of those drifting clouds, ghostly trails that once marked his passage through the mornings.

The Last Sentinels

Once, a pack of stray dogs patrolled the neighbourhood—a motley crowd of Indian street dogs, with a couple of mixed breeds thrown in. They had little in common except their homelessness, which seemed to bind them into a curious fraternity.

They were not aggressive. On the contrary, they performed a useful service for the neighbourhood, keeping a watchful eye on the streets and chasing away the occasional late‑night intruder. Of course, residents returning home late were not always spared from being chased themselves.

Over the years, the pack gradually dwindled until only two remained—the last of the old guard—who quietly continued their nightly vigil. About a year ago, they too disappeared, leaving behind strangely silent and eerily calm streets after dark. The neighbourhood may be safe, perhaps. Yet the nights seem to have lost something—the reassuring presence of those four‑legged sentinels who once guarded our streets.

Perhaps, in time, new sentinels will arrive to fill the role their predecessors once held. Until then, the silence lingers, reminding us of what has been lost.

A Million Flowers

My Rangoon creeper has blossomed countless times, its fragrance renewing the air year after year. I bought it as a tiny sapling from a nursery; now it covers much of the façade, submerging the building under its foliage. We live happily beneath its protective cover. Jasmines and Thunbergia have staged their own performances, too. A million flowers have blossomed and withered in and around me. Everything around me has grown and changed. Yet within myself, I feel little change—except when I look in the mirror. Then I see an old man, strangely familiar, gazing back. But inside, I remain much the same. My study too has remained unchanged.

As dusk settles, I look again through the shaded glass. The Rangoon creeper prepares for its evening ritual: a new set of buds is getting ready to unfurl their petals. They start as pale whites amid an ocean of pink flowers, their elder siblings already on stage in bloom. As the fragrance deepens with their arrival, I feel no urge to step out. Why chase the trivial when such a grand spectacle unfolds just outside my window?

Nothing Lost, Nothing Still

In this small balcony-study, I realise: nothing is constant, yet nothing is lost. The boy becomes a man, the flower withers, the dog departs, the tree grows, and I age. But beneath all these changes lies a continuity, a stillness that endures. To sit quietly and witness this unfolding is perhaps the most profound study of all—not of knowledge, but of being.

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