The scant attention bestowed on it was telling. My balcony’s atrophied look could be discerned from a mile. The clutter was stifling. At one end stood a rusty three-storied metal stand with pots housing a potpourri of wilted plants. The middle ground had made way for my weather-beaten bicycle that appeared weary out of continued disuse. The other end was a veritable store for all household castaways ranging from the ‘would come in handy someday’ bubble wrap to the unused wood left behind by the carpenter. Jostling for space amidst the assortments was my broken microwave that should have been unceremoniously tossed into the garbage bin years ago.
Our balcony was nothing more than an appendage to the rest of the apartment. Every room had its purpose but what about the balcony? Sheer apathy had relegated its status to that of a repository for all the stuff that had outlived their use.
Well, all this changed when I read that a man in faraway France, not venturing out due to the pandemic, had run the length of a full marathon on his balcony. If somebody was motivated enough to run a marathon, lesser mortals like me could at least attempt a sprint.
No sooner had this thought found root in my head, all the accumulated scrap was carted off in a jiffy. Shorn of all the junk, my balcony looked spic and span. The feeling was uplifting.
My ambitions had already withered when it came to fulfilling my resolve to run sprints, I decided to embark upon a much-abbreviated version of a sprint which was to pace up and down the balcony with measured steps. Initially, I relished the freedom of occupying a space that had barred me entry all these years, but the novelty of it soon wore away. The U-turns that I was forced to take after every few steps contributed no less to jettisoning the idea.
The only gear adorning my balcony today is my reclining chair. Sitting on it, I start my day savouring my morning cuppa, gazing at the verdant vegetation in my opposite neighbour’s compound. I lend a willing ear to the tweets of the variety of birds fluttering around as if to disturb the stillness of the morning air, unhesitatingly showing off their plumage. As the sun sets, they return to their nests in the expansive jacaranda and gulmohar trees. During dusk, the birds seem a little more louder and rowdier. But I am not complaining.
The balcony has now claimed its rightful place. My soul is filled with delight.