A Bird On My Windowsill: Struggle Between Being Alone & Seeking Loneliness

In this book, the author sifts through the past, delves into the present and talks about all the creative impulses, writing, directing theatre and acting that have made him who he is. Through his poetry and prose, he creates vignettes of his life, a long-lost love, his interactions with people as he travels, his favourite authors and their writings, almost as if he’s trying to weave a world for the reader as well.

Excerpted from A Bird On My Windowsill, written by Manav Koul, translated by Nandini Kumar Nickerson, and published by Penguin India.

An Excerpt

Last night I was travelling to the Krabi islands from Bangkok. The train journey was beautiful. It reminded me of a ride from Prague to Bratislava. But this one seemed freer, probably because the dining car windows were open. The sweet-smelling fresh air filled the compartment. I smoked and drank tea there most of the day and then I was the first one to order chai early in the morning. Journeys have a strange effect on you. They are not easy at all. Your body starts to feel like an old building and your back like its old, crumbling walls. Like they are peeling off. And things that seemed very important in our everyday life just fall off, making us lighter. You stand against these walls; your sweat makes shapes on them. You start to create meaning out of these shapes. But as soon as you lift your hand to touch them, they disappear. Journeys are complex and wonderful at the same time. Most importantly, they keep us away from all the mundane stuff that keeps us busy, and we call that life.

When in the evening I start to take a walk, I feel butterflies in my stomach, ‘Where should I go today?’ This is what I think every day. What should I do today? Cohen was right when he said, ‘The older I get, the surer I am that I’m not running the show.’

When somebody asks me, ‘Where are you going?’ I often say, ‘Just like that’. And it is right in a way. All my long journeys have started just like that. Whenever I’m lost in the jungle, I feel a strange sensation in my stomach—content that I am lost. I know that I will find my way, but I am also aware that I will not be the same person who got lost. I’ll be different. Whenever I look in the mirror, I wonder, ‘Who is the one looking in the mirror and who is the one looking back?’

Many pictures flash before my eyes whenever I walk on Bhopal’s streets. Stop number 3, Prakash Taran Pushkar, Hostel, New Market, T.T. Nagar, then Kala Parishad, Ravindra Bhavan, the lake and in the end, Bharat Bhavan— the place where I had taken my first step on the stage and began my life as an actor. Whenever I meet people from that time, they tell me stories. I don’t remember being in those stories. I asked them if I was there, and they said yes. They laugh and I lie that yes, I remember. Although I don’t remember being that person, I know he would have been with them at that time. I can never relate to the person in the stories and the person who lived them. It feels as if I don’t know who went through all that and who is living it now.

Someone tiptoed and whispered in my ear, ‘It’s a foggy day’. I jumped out of my bed and was soon walking on the streets of Delhi. The morning seemed like a wet painting. As if a painter had just slathered thick, white paint on the canvas and was waiting for it to take form. These half-made things give rise to so much imagination! Beautiful moments start swimming in this blankness. The things close by became more apparent, and those far away got blurry. Behind the chirping of the birds, I heard the clinking of teacups. I followed the sound and ended up in a small chai shop. And it was then that I realized where this foggy morning was oozing out from.

Whenever an old banyan starts a tale with ‘long time ago’, it feels as if I’m lying down under that tree in the afternoon, dreaming about my ancestors. They were terrific people. I realize this while walking through an old building, touching its ancient walls and feeling as if I’m trying to feel those that have passed by this way. My hands touch what they had felt, and my feet walk the same narrow alleys they had passed through. The silence holds secrets if you stay still enough to listen. If you close your eyes and let the silence speak, you can hear your ancestors. You can dream like they did, sleeping on a cot under the old peepul tree. From their time to ours, what travelled are the memories of not what we gathered but what we left behind.

Spain. I had lived in many hostels before I finally reached Valencia. I thought about staying here for some time, taking in the beauty of this town. Since I was searching for an ending for the play, Chuhal, I always carried a little notepad with me. I was sitting in a café one day, tearing everything I’d written down when I felt someone watching me. I looked across the table and met an old woman’s gaze. There is something special that happens when you travel alone. Everything becomes so still that even a little flutter shakes you to the core. The astonishment in her eyes moved me. I decided to chase it. I gazed back. In such instances—exclusively during my travels—I don’t turn away, I keep trailing that astonished look as if there is something hidden there. I felt she could see a part of me that I didn’t know until now. I started finding answers to the question I didn’t think I had.

The old woman disappeared after a while. I was staring at the blank page in front of me. The end of the play, Chuhal, had started taking shape.

I stayed in every city in Spain for two to three days. I met some very fascinating people in the hostel. We all moved on to our travels after a while. It was comforting to know you are not the only mad traveller. There are many people who are enjoying travelling without an aim. I met such a group in Granada, and we decided to see a flamenco performance on a hilltop. Although the prospect wasn’t exciting for me, I accompanied my new friends. When the show started, and the performers joined one by one, I sensed their emotions. The atmosphere grew thick with feelings. The same kind of heaviness I experience when I write. Suddenly, my Spanish friend put her hand on my shoulder and asked, ‘Are you okay?’ I nodded and then suddenly realized my cheeks were wet. I was crying and I had no idea.