P2 My Balcony Pigeons
8/2/2026
The next few weeks passed like every other week in Gurgaon.
Days dissolved into meetings.
Evenings disappeared into the market downstairs.
Nights belonged to my balcony.
And somewhere between those ordinary days, I kept noticing my neighbours.
Not because they wanted to be noticed.
Because walls are poor keepers of secrets.
Every morning around eight thirty, Neha would leave.
Always in a hurry.
Always carrying too much.
Laptop bag hanging from one shoulder.
Helmet dangling from one arm.
Sometimes a lunch box.
Sometimes files.
Sometimes both.
She would lock the door while searching for her scooter keys at the same time, mumble something to herself, run down the stairs, come back because she had forgotten something, run down again and disappear.
The entire building seemed slower than her.
Rajat, on the other hand, rarely left.
Some afternoons I heard him sweeping the floor.
Sometimes washing utensils.
Sometimes Diya’s laughter echoed through the walls while he chased her around the apartment.
But most of the time…
there was silence.
A heavy kind.
As though somebody had switched off the sound inside their home.
I met him again one evening in the lobby.
He was climbing the stairs with two grocery bags.
I smiled.
“Hello.”
He looked up.
A tired smile appeared for less than a second.
“Hmm…”
Then he continued climbing.
That was all.
I stood there wondering whether some people simply disliked conversations…
or disliked people.
A few Sundays later I decided to make dessert.
Nothing extraordinary.
Just a bowl of homemade payasam.
My mother always believed food introduced people better than words did.
Maybe she was right.
Maybe I wanted to prove to myself that my neighbours weren’t as unfriendly as I had started believing.
I transferred some into a steel bowl, covered it with a plate and walked next door.
The corridor smelled of detergent and damp walls.
I pressed the calling bell.
Footsteps approached.
The door opened.
Neha stood there.
She looked exactly as she always did.
Tired.
Hair tied hurriedly.
No expression.
No smile.
She looked at the bowl.
Then at me.
“Yes?”
“I stay next door,” I smiled.
“I made some payasam today… thought I’d share.”
For a second I expected the usual Indian ritual.
“No no… why did you trouble yourself…” (Oh no… you shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble.)
Followed by accepting it anyway.
Instead she looked at the bowl once more.
“No… thank you.”
“It’s okay…”
“We don’t need it.”
Her voice wasn’t loud.
It wasn’t angry either.
It was simply…
closed.
Before I could say another word, she gently but firmly shut the door.
Not slammed.
Just…
closed.
I remained standing in the corridor for a few seconds.
Holding the same bowl.
Feeling oddly embarrassed.
Through the small gap before the door had shut, I had noticed Rajat.
He was sitting on the sofa.
Not watching television.
Not reading.
Not even looking at us.
He was simply staring at the ceiling.
As though something invisible up there demanded all his attention.
I walked back to my apartment.
The payasam suddenly felt heavier than before.
That evening I finished it myself.
It wasn’t as sweet.
From that day, I decided I didn’t like them.
People often say first impressions are wrong.
Mine kept collecting evidence.
Whenever Rajat crossed me on the staircase, I stopped making space.
Sometimes I slowed my pace deliberately.
Sometimes I occupied the narrow landing just enough to make passing uncomfortable.
Petty things.
Childish things.
He never complained.
Never asked me to move.
He would quietly wait.
Or squeeze past with an apologetic smile that barely existed.
His silence irritated me even more.
Say something, I often thought.
Be rude if you want.
Fight.
Argue.
Anything.
But he never did.
He simply continued living beside me like a shadow.
The only person from that house I genuinely liked was Diya.
Children don’t know how to pretend.
She would wave at pigeons from the balcony.
Talk to stray cats as though they understood Hindi.
Collect tiny leaves during evening walks and proudly show them to her father.
Her laughter travelled through concrete better than any ringtone.
Sometimes, while working, I would hear her inventing stories with her toys.
“This teddy office jaa raha hai…” (This teddy is going to the office.)
“This doll doctor hai…” (This doll is a doctor.)
“This elephant ice cream khayega…” (This elephant will eat ice cream.)
Every object around her had a life.
Every corner of the house became a city.
She made worlds from nothing.
Adults spend their whole lives trying to do the same.
Then came that night.
One of those windless Gurgaon nights when even the air feels tired.
I carried my chair to the balcony after dinner.
The market had finally gone quiet.
Only an occasional auto passed below.
Somewhere a pressure cooker whistled.
Somewhere a dog barked.
The pigeons had disappeared into whatever dreams pigeons dream.
I leaned back, stretched my legs onto the railing and looked at the unfinished buildings across the street.
The steel rods stood against the grey sky.
Like fingers still waiting to hold something.
A voice floated in from the next balcony.
Neha.
She wasn’t speaking to Rajat.
She was on the phone.
Probably with her parents.
At first I wasn’t listening.
Then certain words began arriving clearly through the gap between our balconies.
“I can’t do this anymore…”
A pause.
“No… nothing has changed.”
Another pause.
“I’ve waited enough.”
Her voice wasn’t angry.
It was exhausted.
The kind of exhaustion that arrives only after years.
Then I heard another voice.
Not clearly.
Her mother, perhaps.
Only broken sounds.
Neha replied immediately.
“No, Ma…” (No, Mom…)
“Yes, he tried.”
Silence.
“Tried… yes.”
Another silence.
“But trying doesn’t pay school fees.”
She laughed.
Not because something was funny.
Because sometimes laughter is easier than crying.
“You know how many businesses he’s started?”
She began counting.
One.
Two.
Three.
I lost track.
“Every time it’s the same.”
“He believes someone.”
“He borrows money.”
“He loses everything.”
“He says he’ll fix it.”
“He starts again.”
“And we start from zero.”
There was another pause.
Then her voice became sharper.
“I am tired of beginning from zero.”
The sentence stayed in the night long after she had spoken it.
She continued.
“You know what hurts?”
“He is a good man.”
A long silence.
“So good…”
“…that he doesn’t know how to survive.”
I lowered my legs from the railing.
For the first time…
I wasn’t hearing a complaint.
I was hearing defeat.
She continued, her words slower now.
“I leave before sunrise.”
“I come home after dark.”
“Rent.”
“School.”
“Medicines.”
“Groceries.”
“Everything.”
“And he still says next month will be better.”
Another silence.
“No, Ma…” (No, Mom…)
“I’m not saying he doesn’t love Diya.”
Her voice cracked.
“I’m saying love doesn’t pay bills.”
She inhaled deeply.
“So yes…”
“I think I’m done.”
“I’ll come home for a few days.”
Another pause.
“No…”
“This time I don’t think I’ll come back.”
A chair scraped against the floor.
Footsteps.
Then suddenly…
“Enough, Neha…”
Rajat’s voice.
It was the first time I had ever heard him raise it.
Not loudly.
Just enough.
“I’ll fix it.”
“You’ve been fixing it for years,” she replied.
“I’ll manage.”
“With what?”
Silence.
“Dreams?”
“You can’t feed a child with dreams, Rajat.”
“I know…”
“No.”
“You don’t.”
Every word struck like something heavy being placed carefully on the ground.
Not thrown.
Placed.
She continued.
“You’ve lost money.”
“You’ve lost opportunities.”
“You’ve lost our savings.”
“I won’t let Diya lose her future.”
The apartment fell silent.
A minute later the main door opened.
Closed.
Then another sound.
Suitcase wheels rolling across the corridor.
Down the staircase.
Growing fainter.
Then nothing.
Only the night remained.
And somewhere beyond the wall…
a man who had nothing left to say.