The World Outside My Window

In the leafy, shady part of Bangalore where I live, far removed from the city’s bustle and relentless clamor, I see a world through my window that’s more of a botanical soap opera than a peaceful painting. Each morning, as the sun reluctantly makes its way through the often overcast sky, I sit by the window and see a world that’s teeming with life, both leaf and critter.

The first star of this botanical soap opera is the jasmine plant. It has grown so tall that it now looks like it’s trying to stage a hostile takeover of my house. What started as a modest climbing vine with sweet-scented flowers has now evolved into a veritable jungle, its tendrils reaching for the clouds as if it’s angling for a promotion in the plant hierarchy. The flowers, though still fragrant, have become so numerous that they seem to be staging a floral rebellion against the garden’s modesty. Each day I fully expect to find a family of birds setting up residence in the jasmine’s upper branches, or perhaps a lost pilot asking for directions.

Next door to Miss Jasmine is Miss Curry Leaf, a model of restraint and propriety. She stands, almost apologetically, in stark contrast to her overly enterprising neighbor. “I’m just here to keep things grounded,” she seems to say, always impeccably dressed in her green foliage — a neat little shrub, never one to make a fuss. I can’t help but admire her humility, despite her place in the heart of every Indian kitchen.

Then there’s the hibiscus, which seems to have mistaken itself for a flamboyant diva, and is perhaps the femme fatale of this show. Its striking red flowers bloom and unfurl like the curtains of a theater, making a dramatic entrance into the scene. The hibiscus never misses an opportunity to make a spectacle of itself — as if it’s the plant version of a Bollywood star, always ready for the spotlight.

The betel leaf creeper is the real villain of this drama. It seems to have taken its role as the house’s self-appointed decorator very seriously. The creeper has enveloped the bottom edge of my window with such determination that it now looks like the window has been framed with a luxuriant green curtain. The betel leaf has even managed to wrap itself around my internet wires, resulting in a peculiar arrangement where the only thing the wires seem to be connecting is the plant’s ambition with my questionable internet connection.

Among the unassuming characters of this show are the fairy lilies, having sprouted in between the grass seemingly by accident. These little splashes of pink emerged in a modest display of humble rebellion, blooming quietly amongst their more ostentatious neighbors.

Insects, too, have become invested in this botanical exhibit — a snail occasionally slides along one of the glass panes, so slowly that it has become somewhat of a local celebrity. It seems to savor every moment of its leisurely stroll, so gradually moving forth that watching it has become a meditative exercise. A spider has spun its web in one corner, hoping to catch some flies. The web is a marvel of engineering, though it has become a bit of a nuisance when I inadvertently walk into it and end up with a face full of silk.

Perched on the windowsill with the air of a retired professor and a look of contemplation for anything that moves is the lizard, forever the terror of his fellow insects and much to the annoyance of the tenants of the house. He watches the world with a detached air, occasionally darting out to grab a quick meal before returning to his aloof observation.

Then there’s the mantis. She remains perfectly still yet sways about in the breeze, blending in immaculately with the leaf she’s sitting on. Her stillness is a mystery — I can’t quite decide if she’s waiting for an unsuspecting critter to wander too close or if, in that small, delicate frame of hers, she’s secretly plotting world domination. For now, though, she seems content to sit on her leaf and watch the show.

In the backdrop of this scene seems to be a charming Swiss meadow, specs of snow gently resting on top of a green carpet — almost inviting you to go out and stand in the middle. But beware, this is neither snow nor a meadow — this is a patch of Congress grass, much to the dismay of the unassuming old uncle who walks by, who is suddenly overwhelmed by a tremendous bout of sneezing.

Adding a touch of royal elegance to this frame is the cat who strolls quietly along the edge of the compound wall, with the balance of a tightrope walker and the aloofness of a feline aristocrat. Occasionally, a bird or two will perch themselves on the jasmine and hibiscus, perhaps talking about the state of garden politics. The cat, having had enough of this chirping, flicks its tail up and walks away.

As the evening sun begins to soften, I find myself oddly content to be the sole audience of this botanical spectacle. Tomorrow, no doubt, the jasmine will reach a little higher, the hibiscus will flaunt its next bloom, and the lizard will resume its vigil. And I’ll be right here, watching this familiar yet never-quite-the-same scene, of the world outside my window.