This window is not mine, nor is it entirely outside. Every morning, the first thing I see after waking up is this window. As soon as I open the curtain a little, the outside life opens up before my eyes. I just stand there, and the window becomes my eyes. I see, but I don't participate.
The morning light touches the window glass. Before the light comes, sounds come, the last breath of the distant call to prayer, the sound of the tea shop kettle lid, and the rickshaw bell. Life awakens outside the window, and inside the window I wake up a little late. I like this delay. It's as if the world has begun without me, and I'm quietly searching for it.
The street below the window is not very large, but there is no shortage of stories. Some familiar faces walk at the same time every day, while others carry shopping bags in their hands. Their walking style is not in a hurry, but they have a sense of responsibility. Maybe someone is waiting at home. Maybe someone doesn't do it anymore, but the habit has remained.
Looking out the window, these habits are very clear things that are not noticeable when you are inside. A little later, the school children leave. Some have big bags, some small. Some are smiling, some are serious. Looking through the window, it seems like they are all the same. But I know that their inner worlds are completely different. Some may be walking today with the fear of exams, while others want to forget about their troubles at home. The window shows everything but says nothing.
The window becomes different in the afternoon. It's afternoon without any sun. For some time now, my own reflection has not been floating on the window glass, blending in with the outside scene. Half me, half the street. At this time, I understand where I really am. Different from inside and outside, different from the outside. The window gives me that in-between space.
Sometimes, when I look out the window, I see someone, and I remember myself. When I see someone's tired face, I remember my tiredness. When I see someone's smile, I wonder when I last smiled like that. The window acts like a mirror but not directly. It reflects my own feelings through the lives of others.
On this foggy day, the role of the window changes. Drops of fog accumulate on the glass; the outside scene becomes completely blurry. People run to escape the cold, some in rickshaws, some in winter clothes. Standing inside the window, it feels like this glass is protecting me not only from the cold, but also from the hustle and bustle of life. Everyone outside is going somewhere, but inside I am not going anywhere. This not-going is also a place.
At night, the window becomes even quieter. The light decreases, and the sound gradually disappears. Then some windows are closed, and some windows are lit. Inside each illuminated window, a different life is going on some are eating, some are talking, and some are sitting quietly.
Looking through the window it is a very strange experience. It seems that everyone is imprisoned in their own homes, and yet everyone is together. This window has taught me that not all lives can be entered. Some lives can only be seen, not touched. And that is right. If there were no windows, maybe I would have entered everything outside and lost myself.
The window has taught me distance which is sometimes very necessary. Most importantly, the window has taught me to stop. It has taught me to stand and look before running. I have understood that life is not just about taking part but also about showing a part this is what I have understood through the eyes of the window.
When you look at life through the eyes of a window, you understand that the world is not too big nor too small. We all stand on this side of our own glass, watching the stories on the other side. We do not know each other, we do not touch each other yet some stories remain in our minds. And the person standing in front of the window that is me and whoever else.
