The serpentine street overlooks
Tall, yet, old and frail houses
Which hover over it from all sides
The houses have histories, the street, all the memories.
I watch quietly from my rear window
wondering what secrets the street knows
The awakening of the lazy street
Doesn't coincide with mine
Knowing well I'm watching it
Half asleep, it covers its eyes.
Shying away from impending dawn
As if snoozing its alarm
It readies itself for another day
Of memories all around.
As light breaks in, the cycle bells ring
Newspaper boys do their rounds
On the open balcony's they fling
One fails to throw one in
Ambitiously throwing two together
One on the second,
The other up third floor.
Watching it land on the parapet
He curses himself for a bad attempt
Resting his bicycle against a wall
He picks the weapon of choice
Racing up the stairs he goes
And runs up to the third
Arching precariously through the window
Bracing for the duel ahead
He takes his humble weapon out
A long and dangling bamboo stick
Remnants of a cobweb cleaner
And pokes his lance out.
The newspaper's a worthy opponent
Refusing to budge a bit,
Helped by a stray stone on the parapet
The boy get his hit
Knowing laws of gravity
Perhaps not Newton's
He rushes down the stairs quickly
Reaching out to the battered paper.
Picking it up and he dusts it hard
Removing traces of the dust settled on it
He takes his aim and throws it right up third
He waits.
To hear the landing thud
Looking up all the while,
Bubka would be proud of him i think
Then he looks me in the eye.
The horror in his face apparent
Guiltily he looks down,
I'm trying to make eye contact
But his eyes remain fixed down.
Finally, he trudges towards his pride
Bicycle rested against the wall
He looks up at me once again
Carpe diem or Carpe florem
I gesture towards him frantically.
The quizzical look on his face, finally catches my smile.
He smiles back at me, knowing his secret's safe
Rushes to his bicycle, so many more deliveries to make.
I share a secret with the street I feel, and help myself to a grin
From a distance i hear a tinkling sound
The pulley rickshaws are in.
As dawn turns to morning, the street wakes up too
Used the morning's hustle-bustle, it stretches its arms and legs
instead of turning over.
The first batch of morning walkers start their trail
Sweatshirts, track pants, jogging shoes, the feet start picking pace
Here the occasional greeting, as each others they pass bye
Some just nod in acknowledgement, strangers they may be
But the daily routine of theirs, has built a camaraderie.
Next the working women come, the maids from far beyond
Ticket-less in trains they come, in hordes they pass by
Others come from a walkable distance' n call it nearby!
As door bells awaken sleepy heads, the daily chores begin.
The street and I keep watching, perhaps some others too.
It's not so odd after all, Rear Window was written in '52!
Tall, yet, old and frail houses
Which hover over it from all sides
The houses have histories, the street, all the memories.
I watch quietly from my rear window
wondering what secrets the street knows
The awakening of the lazy street
Doesn't coincide with mine
Knowing well I'm watching it
Half asleep, it covers its eyes.
Shying away from impending dawn
As if snoozing its alarm
It readies itself for another day
Of memories all around.
As light breaks in, the cycle bells ring
Newspaper boys do their rounds
On the open balcony's they fling
One fails to throw one in
Ambitiously throwing two together
One on the second,
The other up third floor.
Watching it land on the parapet
He curses himself for a bad attempt
Resting his bicycle against a wall
He picks the weapon of choice
Racing up the stairs he goes
And runs up to the third
Arching precariously through the window
Bracing for the duel ahead
He takes his humble weapon out
A long and dangling bamboo stick
Remnants of a cobweb cleaner
And pokes his lance out.
The newspaper's a worthy opponent
Refusing to budge a bit,
Helped by a stray stone on the parapet
The boy get his hit
Knowing laws of gravity
Perhaps not Newton's
He rushes down the stairs quickly
Reaching out to the battered paper.
Picking it up and he dusts it hard
Removing traces of the dust settled on it
He takes his aim and throws it right up third
He waits.
To hear the landing thud
Looking up all the while,
Bubka would be proud of him i think
Then he looks me in the eye.
The horror in his face apparent
Guiltily he looks down,
I'm trying to make eye contact
But his eyes remain fixed down.
Finally, he trudges towards his pride
Bicycle rested against the wall
He looks up at me once again
Carpe diem or Carpe florem
I gesture towards him frantically.
The quizzical look on his face, finally catches my smile.
He smiles back at me, knowing his secret's safe
Rushes to his bicycle, so many more deliveries to make.
I share a secret with the street I feel, and help myself to a grin
From a distance i hear a tinkling sound
The pulley rickshaws are in.
As dawn turns to morning, the street wakes up too
Used the morning's hustle-bustle, it stretches its arms and legs
instead of turning over.
The first batch of morning walkers start their trail
Sweatshirts, track pants, jogging shoes, the feet start picking pace
Here the occasional greeting, as each others they pass bye
Some just nod in acknowledgement, strangers they may be
But the daily routine of theirs, has built a camaraderie.
Next the working women come, the maids from far beyond
Ticket-less in trains they come, in hordes they pass by
Others come from a walkable distance' n call it nearby!
As door bells awaken sleepy heads, the daily chores begin.
The street and I keep watching, perhaps some others too.
It's not so odd after all, Rear Window was written in '52!
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