When I think about what memory I will carry with me, I would say I would carry memories of my mornings. No matter which city I have lived in, I have lived for the character that is created by the mornings.
My neighborhood in Bangalore moves at its own pace—unhurried, indifferent to startups and deadlines. During most mornings, we hear an odd cuckoo sing, and I wake up when the curtains flutter with the cool morning breeze. As I wake, I take slow strides to my balcony. A caged mesh guards me from the pigeons and their relentless droppings.
Today is a slow December morning, and I pull my sweater closer.
Across from me, an older man is walking swiftly, swinging his arms on a rectangular terrace. He has tied up his lungi exposing his knees and wears a baseball cap. Sometimes he takes his phone out and flips it open. He has one of those phone covers that open on the side. He scrolls and then hurriedly puts it back, following it up with a jogging motion. As he moves, he navigates around sarees hung out to dry, occasionally pushing them aside. Sharing space with him are two bulky Sintex overhead tanks. "Better to battle sarees than stray dogs," he must be thinking.
A little further ahead, a school girl is walking on another terrace, to my life. She is wearing a uniform, a collar that tugs at her double chin. She walks in circles, her eyes glued to her phone. She reads out things out loud, and moves her hands animatedly. She closes her fist, opens it, draws circles, pressing her thumb and index finger. Why did it feel like she was reading Hindi? What stories are the kids reading these days? I get curious.
In front of me, a young man stands shirtless, his upper body glistening with oil. Dressed only in shorts, he faces the rising sun, then suddenly drops into sit-ups, followed by a series of push-ups. His movements are intense, almost rehearsed. I shift uncomfortably. Why does it feel intrusive to watch?
On another terrace, a middle-aged man stands still, wrapped in a brown beanie and a bright green T-shirt. He is positioned in front of Tata Sky satellite dishes, his hands hidden behind the terrace wall. Smoking, maybe? Then, as if on cue, he lifts them and waves intently at someone in the distance. His gestures are exaggerated—palms moving from his waist to above his head. "The plants are growing," he seems to be saying. I follow his gaze. A young schoolboy in uniform waves back, flashing his open palm—five-five. A silent conversation. Moments later, the boy reappears with his school bag and lunchbox, dashing down the stairs toward the house of the man in the brown beanie.
And just like that, another morning unfolds. Different faces, same rituals. The city may change, but its mornings remain—familiar, comforting, and mine to carry forward.