Sit on the Swing

The product of my homework procrastination. Enjoy and remember to comment!:)

She comes, every calm-weather day, without fail, brightening my window view at 5.15 pm precisely. She doesn’t do anything there besides sit and grip the ropes tightly, staring into blankness with an expression I cannot discern. Around 6 she rises abruptly and walks away without a glance. The swing-chair rocks back and forth as though wooing her back. No worry, she will be back tomorrow.

I was not the only one who noticed this oddity. “What, is that Punjabi girl sitting out there again?” my mother would ask exasperatedly. Why should it bother you if she does? “Young people shouldn’t moon about, doing nothing. Its not natural! She should occupy her time with better things. Besides, her mother would be worried about her.”

As for me, during the lazy hot evenings when I’m feeling drowsy and disinclined to do my homework, I watch and wonder about her. What’s her story? Why does she come here everyday? She doesn’t even look like she’s enjoying herself. It must be really boring to just sit on that swing every day. Not much view to look at, just a scrawny playground opposite originally-white-but-age-blackened terrace houses. I had a theory that her mind wasn’t really on her surroundings, though.

What would it be like to talk to her? I often wondered but never dared try. It would have been so easy; just down the stairs, out the door and walk over to the swing and say “Hi”. But I just had the feeling that it was not my place to disturb her solitude.

-

That girl in the window is staring at me again. She thinks that I don’t know, that I can’t see her occasionally peeking down at me with curious eyes. I intrigue her. And I think I’ll let that stay.

I haven’t met anyone who can hold thoughts and feelings so tightly within themselves as I can; or if I have, they are able to contain it so well that I never noticed any wrongness ever at all. My face is emotionless; I do not cry easily nor get angry. And when I’m sad, my face turns to stone completely. Perhaps this abnormality of mine is what makes people keep their distance.

I don’t think much when I am at the swing. I’ve been going for 2 years now, just waiting, waiting, without hope and yet helpless to stop. He said he would come, he promised he would. My father, who left me to try his luck in the city. To make sure I don’t become like him, he said. And the only answer to my asking when he would return was a vague, “soon”.

I’m not even sure whether he’s alive anymore. Life is dangerous in the city. I don’t live with my aunt anymore, things aren’t that good between us and my father won’t be able to find me there. But he might remember this playground, this place. We once lived near here, when mother was around and life was happier, and the best memory I have of us is being pushed on the swing by my father; back, forth, back, forth. A soothing, rhythmic repetition that summed up our life: our safe, secure and wonderful life.

I come here because…actually, I cannot put it in words, but if I am truly his daughter, he should know he can find me here. He always said I put too much trust in the intangible, that I needed a better grip on the harsh realities of life.

I’ve seen them, and I’m sick of them.

I wonder if that girl, someday, might come down and talk to me. It’s not that interesting sitting here alone, immersed in the prison of your past and not being able to leave it behind. She might be able to make it better.

Like all other desires in life, sometimes we can only dream…