Little Boxes

 I remember those days in my childhood when my parents would take me to visit their friends, relatives and acquaintances. I remember those long taxi rides that would bring me back home, the warm yellow light of the street lamps that would dance past the rolled-up windows on a winter night, I remember how I would prop myself against the vinyl-covered seats, watching the street lamps fade in the distance. Calcutta traffic post-10 at night would be far more relaxed, consisting mostly of long-distance trucks carrying cargo I'll never know of, punctuated only by private cars, or by other taxis carrying passengers just like me. 

 

I remember the few high-rise buildings that scattered round Bypass, far from what it is today. I remember the buildings under construction, supported by scaffoldings and plastic drapes, which hung like ghosts from the unfinished floors, haunting the residents yet to come. The ones occupied would make their presence felt through the brightly lit lights which cut through the darkness of the night. I remember rows of lit windows, each a shade of blue, yellow or white. “They look like comic strips!” I used to think, each window like panel separated by walls of gutter spaces, each with a different story to tell. 

 

I've always fantasized about the occupants, wondering what they'd do, maybe they felt like birds, maybe they felt free. Maybe they were happy in their apartments, returning home from work to their cats or their roommates or partners. Maybe they lived alone, coming back to hours and hours of uninterrupted silence. Did they visit their parents' friends or relatives or acquaintances like me? I guess not. And in an instance, I would imagine myself in their shoes. How would I fare if I were them? Would I live alone? Perhaps with a cat? Or with a plant? Or with the silence I would have preferred for myself? Would my parents want to take me to their friends and relatives and acquaintances? I hope not. 

 

I hoped not. I still don't. I would probably be fine, living alone. I would be, right? I would be fine. I try to convince myself, clenching my teeth as I think about the days to come. I know the days that are about to come. Days where I'm happier, days where I no longer have to adhere to deadlines or dinnertimes. Days which are no longer half-concealed by the warm yellow glow of decades-old Calcutta street lamps. Days when I'll not be forced to remember the child who watched the dance of yellow streetlights and fantasise about the adult who is yet to be. Instead, maybe, just maybe, I'll be reminded of a song a dear professor had once recommended, perhaps I'll also hum a line or two:

 

“Little boxes on the hillside

Little boxes made of ticky tacky

Little boxes, little boxes

Little boxes all the same...”