Inseparable

Let’s imagine we’re playing Name-Place-Animal-Thing. If the letter is "W", no doubt I’ll write "Window" under Place. I’m very sure I won’t write "Window" under Thing but under Place. And we might end up arguing—“Window is not a place!”—and I won’t get a point, while you will, making it 1–0. But I won’t mind.

Windows have always been a place to me. A place where I can live, where I can fall asleep, where I’m the most productive version of myself, where my creative juices flow, where I can eat, where I sip my tea and spill some tea if I’ve friends around, where I can laugh, cry, sob, giggle, rant, and write! I’ve always adored windows. Windows have a life in my life. A window is a character in my story. I’m writing this sitting by the window, and now I realize—I’ve always written sitting by the window. I can’t find a single piece of my writing where I’ve placed myself anywhere else.

Even as a child, I could sit by the window and entertain myself. No fancy toys, no one to talk to—oh, I’d rather say no one to disturb me. I could just look out and be happy in my own world. Others might see only plants, trees, and surroundings, but I could see a colorful imaginary tape playing. Windows enhanced my imagination, kept my little brain busy.

I’ve always had a thing for windows. I capture windows and doors on my camera whenever I’m out roaming. My gallery has a separate vault for them—from pale school windows to age-old, intricate, magnificent ones. If I were ever an architect, I’d spend my life designing windows.

Windows are such humble, hearty characters. In some places, they are so simple—like in a big rock temple, where just a hole brings life as a window. At other places, a window looks like a bride ready for marriage, charming with shringara rasa. Some windows feel like wise grandparents, weathered by time yet overflowing with love, their cracks and creaks whispering old stories. And some are playful children—half-open, swinging, calling in sunlight and laughter.

I was curious to know if windows were ever mentioned in our sacred texts. When I searched, I found that the Ramayana and Mahabharata never really glorified them. But in the Bhagavad Gita, I came across a verse that felt like a window in spirit. It doesn’t literally mention windows, but uses the senses as metaphors—openings through which the soul perceives the world.

श्रोत्रं चक्षुः स्पर्शनं च रसनं घ्राणमेव च ।
अधिष्ठाय मनश्चायं विषयानुपसेवते ॥ 

Meaning: The soul, having established itself in the body, enjoys the objects of the senses—sound, sight, touch, taste, and smell—by presiding over the ear, eyes, skin, tongue, nose, and mind. To me, this feels exactly like what windows do—silent frames that connect inner and outer worlds.

I have two very broad windows in my room, and they make my space alive. I’m as happy as the chirping birds and butterflies I watch from the other side. My work table is set up by the window—I couldn’t have been productive otherwise. I take selfies by the window too! And now I know why I named this column Wednesday Window. I realize our inseparable connection. Back then, I had chosen the name simply because I wrote on Wednesdays, and “Window” was the first “W” word that popped into my head. It sounded rhyming, so I kept it. But now, after this realization, I see—it isn’t just a word. It’s an emotion.