The 'Hood

The first night is always interesting. My bed is astonishingly good given the presence of deep buttons that make it resemble a medieval torture device. But it is firm and unyielding and offers up sleep akin to death. Naturally, death is not instantaneous and when I'd expressed a preference for a flat in the rear of the building, to escape the continuous blaring of emergency sirens that the tail end of Edgware road brings, I didn't expect to wind up in Calcutta.

I snuggle under the duvet, feeling benign. It is Friday night after all, so the party nearby doesn't bother me, but the wailing child makes me want to smack the parents. Saturday morning, I carefully plan how I might wreak my artistic persona on the flat, wondering if anyone is likely to call the cops as the strains of Shukhran Allah wends its way in the hollow of buildings my window opens to. I have only two CD’s, and the neighbours are no doubt aware of this fact. But soon, the brat begins, and for a minute I’m doubtful whether it is a child, or a pained and outraged cat. My musings are cut short by a rabid argument with excessively rude words being bandied around, but soon, I turn my music off in favour of the sultry French jazz wafting through someone else’s window.

Jimmy Stewart, eat your heart out. I have ascended a new dimension of rear windows, as I belated realize I shall have to curb my au naturel meanderings about the house. My living room opens to peer not only onto the little sit-out below, but into more than a dozen other windows, above, below, in line with, all across from me, offering glimpses into peoples lives. I don’t have the inclination to gawk, unless its into someone kitchen, then I’m voyeur unsolicited (I spent an entire evening watching chappie at Abingdon Road make an omlette), and mine seems to have the only bedroom on display. Hardly matters, as even when ensconced on my bouncy divan, gleefully stealing someone else’s wireless for a few brief moments, I’m drawn into the daily sounds of the neighbourhood as clearly as if I was at 114A/1B Selimpur Road. It lifts my imagination to turn a very English flat with ugly grey carpets into a den of Eastern mysticism (not to mention poetic largesse), not least for necessitating on the floor seating, but only appropriate for any peeping Toms curious about the haunting lyrics....

najaro se najarein mili toh, jannat si mehaki fijaaye
lab ne jo lab chhu liya toh, aasmaan se barasi duwaaye
aisi apani mohabbat, aisi ruhe ibaadathum pe meherbaan do jahaan

shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila

teri baahon mein yeh jism khil gaya, teri saason mein chain mil gaya
kaise rahe abb hum judaho ho tere paas hum itane huye, tere khwaab apane huye
aise huye abb hum fidaaisi usaki inaayat, mit gayi har shikaayat hum pe meherbaan do jahaan

shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila
shukran allah wallahabdullila

tere saaye mein mili har khushi, teri marji meri jindagi
le chal tu chaahe jahaanha ha meri aankhon mein najar teri hai, meri shaamo sahar teri hai
tu jo nahi toh main kahaankhil gayi meri kismat, paake teri yeh chaahat
hum pe meherbaan do jahaan