A place we all call home and that home has a terrace. The terrace is where you stand with a person you love a lot and you stand there to experience what I call, “A moment of truth.”
The terrace is where someone made love under a cloudy sky, wrapped in blankets, and shivered. A terrace, where you were taken at a time when you were trying to work. There you run with hand in hand, bare foot, jeans rolled up to avoid the hem from getting dirty, up the stairs which is lit up by a 60 watt bulb, peeping through a cane lamp shade and some cob webs.
You run to the terrace with a childlike enthusiasm, that sound of 2 pairs of excited feet of small urchins, thumping on cement and that moment when you are being called by your mother to come down and you just don’t pay heed to that call which comes from a person who has always comforted you. You don’t listen because you are experiencing a moment, which I call, “the moment of truth.”
Breeze, dusk, orange, grey, blue, you and that person all at the same time, some coconut trees, a crow on an antenna, a cuckoo singing, who you can hear but cant see, and a moon too, like a half eaten marshmallow, a streak of silver and a road down below where people are walking, a dog running, women gossiping, cars moving, above all this you see houses, rows after rows, with balconies and people doing something or the other. Surrounded you are with technology like a BTS and few dishes but you have consciously left your laptop and cell phone down there, where your mom must be waiting for the 2 of you with a cup of tea, may be, where your dad must be reading a newspaper and not blinking an eyelid amidst all that chaos your mom has been creating because you two are witnessing a moment called, “the moment of truth” and not paying attention to her calls.
The clouds like an artist in the middle of his painting has swirled his paint brush in water so that he could take a brush of fresh colour to be put on his canvas. A canvas, which has grey and orange hues, in no particular order or shape but they mesmerize you. And then you listen to the call of God when the breeze whispers in your ears, making your hair drift and fall on your face.
And there is a guitar playing with the choir group at a neighboring church and a namaz being offered at a near by mosque. You are one with God, as you look up to the sky to see him and you look down to the church and mosque and smile at the mediocre intelligence of man for having built those buildings and call it home of God, where as you know, all you need to witness is to look up, look up, look up…
Sun sets and your “Moment of Truth” lingers, you come down, the laptop still playing some thing, don’t remember what, your cell phone has no missed call, you still bare foot, with jeans rolled up, lost in another act of God, the act of love.