My Balcony Pigeons
8/2/2026
There are places that never become beautiful.
No matter how long you stay, no matter how many memories you pour into them, they refuse to wear beauty like a habit.
My rented one bedroom apartment in Sector 28, Gurgaon, was one of those places.
The lane leading to the building was always awake before the sun. Vegetable carts occupied half the road. Two wheelers squeezed through impossible gaps. Stray dogs slept with complete ownership of the street while people walked around them as though they paid rent too. Rainwater never really disappeared. It collected in potholes and reflected tangled electric wires instead of the sky.
Every morning the market downstairs smelled different.
Some mornings it was frying samosas.
Some mornings wet cardboard.
Some mornings coriander, diesel and dust.
The street was crowded enough that nobody looked at anyone. Everyone was walking somewhere important. Nobody seemed to have arrived anywhere.
And somehow…
that market completed my day.
I worked from home.
My world was measured by video meetings, deadlines, coffee mugs and the changing light that entered through one balcony.
The apartment stood on the seventh floor.
Seven floors do not sound intimidating until there is no lift.
Every evening I climbed them like a ritual.
The first floor smelled of onions.
The second had an old radio that played forgotten Hindi songs.
The third always had children’s slippers scattered outside.
The fourth belonged to an elderly couple who argued every evening over television volume.
The fifth carried the smell of incense.
The sixth…
was where people usually stopped.
The staircase turned there, and almost everyone rested for a few seconds before gathering enough breath to climb the final flight. I would hear strangers laughing at their own exhaustion.
“Bhai… bas ek floor aur…” (Brother… just one more floor…)
Sometimes someone would sit on the step, breathing heavily.
Sometimes delivery boys would leave their bags on the landing and wipe sweat from their forehead before continuing.
The building itself always looked unfinished.
Steel reinforcement bars pierced out of concrete beams like exposed bones. Every balcony had rusting rods projecting into empty space as if the building had once dreamt of growing another floor and then abandoned the thought.
Whenever I looked at those naked rods, they reminded me of crippled limbs…
like buildings that had become handicapped before adulthood.
The pigeons loved them.
Every morning they landed on those steel rods, puffed their necks proudly and watched the market beneath them as though they owned Gurgaon.
Sometimes they fought.
Sometimes they simply sat there together, saying nothing.
I often wondered whether silence sounded different among birds.
My balcony was small enough that two people standing together would feel apologetic.
But it was mine.
I had made it mine.
A single rose plant occupied one corner.
Beside it stood three indoor plants whose names I never cared enough to learn. They simply looked happier than me.
A foldable metal chair completed the arrangement.
Every night after work I carried my tea, or sometimes nothing at all, and sat there.
I would stretch both legs onto the railing and stare into the city.
The strange thing about those balconies was that they were never completely separated.
The partition wall stopped just below the beam.
It gave privacy to the eyes…
not to the ears.
You couldn’t see your neighbour.
But you could hear their lives.
Pressure cooker whistles.
Late-night phone calls.
Arguments.
Children reciting poems.
Someone laughing.
Someone crying.
Lives travelled through concrete much easier than people did.
The family living next to me consisted of three people.
I knew that because I had heard them before I ever saw them.
The husband was Rajat.
The wife was Neha.
The little girl was Diya.
She was probably three.
I knew her name because someone called it at least fifty times every day.
“Diya…”
“Diya, shoes pehno.” (Diya, put on your shoes.)
“Diya, idhar aao.” (Diya, come here.)
“Diya…”
Children are introduced to the world through repetition.
Neha, on the other hand, always seemed to be leaving.
Almost every weekday morning, after returning from my jog, I would see her rushing towards her scooty.
She never walked.
She moved like someone perpetually late for life.
She tied her curly hair while walking.
Sometimes she held a file between her teeth because both hands were busy.
Sometimes she wore her wristwatch while unlocking the scooter.
Her formal clothes always looked only half ironed, as though the morning had interrupted the ironing halfway through.
She was tall.
Fair.
Lean.
Sharp featured.
Beautiful in a tired sort of way.
But what struck me wasn’t her appearance.
It was her complete absence from the world around her.
She never looked left.
Never looked right.
Never noticed the chai stall.
Never noticed the flower vendor.
Never noticed me.
She behaved as though the universe existed only between her apartment door and her office.
Then one evening I finally met them.
I was walking home, talking to a friend over the phone, when something soft bounced off my leg.
A small red ball rolled near my feet.
Behind it came an even smaller girl.
She stopped a few steps away.
Curly hair.
Round brown eyes.
Tiny dimples.
She looked at me…
then at the ball…
then back at me.
Her face carried that universal expression children wear after accidentally troubling a stranger.
She thought I would scold her.
I bent down, picked up the ball and smiled.
“Yeh chahiye?” (Do you want this?)
She nodded without moving.
I walked towards her and held the ball out.
She hesitated.
As though kindness required permission.
I gently tapped her head.
“Le jao.” (Go ahead, take it.)
Her fingers slowly wrapped around the ball.
A tiny smile appeared.
The kind that arrives before laughter learns its way.
Just then a man came walking quickly behind her.
“Sorry bhai… ball lag gayi.” (Sorry, brother… the ball hit you.)
“No problem,” I smiled. “I stay next door.”
“Oh… achha.” (Oh… I see.)
He extended his hand.
“Rajat.”
I shook it.
“My name is…”
He was fair.
A little chubby.
His face was perfectly round, like a full moon that hadn’t slept in weeks.
An uneven beard had begun covering his cheeks. Against his pale skin it looked like thin white pine trees scattered across a green hillside.
His eyes carried dark circles that no amount of sleep could probably erase.
He wore faded half shorts and a loose white T-shirt with a small tear near the shoulder.
Nothing about him looked cared for.
“I work in IT,” I said, trying to keep the conversation alive. “Work from home.”
“Oh… great.”
Just that.
No curiosity.
No questions.
He slightly nodded.
I asked, “What do you do?”
He paused.
“Business.”
It sounded less like an answer and more like something borrowed.
I knew immediately there was another story behind that word.
Before I could ask anything else, he looked towards Diya.
“Diya… chalo beta. Khana khate hain.” (Diya… come, dear. Let’s go have dinner.)
He held her tiny hand and walked away.
Not rudely.
Just…
without wanting to be known.