'The Man at the Window' by Shilpa Gupte

 

He hides behind the curtains, peeping through the slits, checking my window to see if I am there; some nights, he stands by my window humming along to the songs playing on my radio as I lie in bed (my son said we live on the eighth floor and one can not climb that high so I need not worry, but…), and sometimes, he follows me as I walk to the fish market to buy fresh fish to fry and eat with rice for lunch; his long, ghostly shadow, his Kolhapuri chappals that creak with every step, the smell of his cigarette with its spirals of smoke hound me; I buy quickly–without haggling–and hurry home because I am scared he will try and hold my hand or touch my pallu without any regard for my grey hair or the sindoor I apply in the parting–I started applying the vermillion powder after my husband passed away (”we women have to fend for ourselves, you know!” I told my neighbour when she pointed out it’s against the custom for widows to do so) oh, this man, as old as my son, ogling, whistling when no one’s around, peeping through the curtains when I change my saree, and…and unbuttoning his shirt, like he did that day when I wore my favourite pink saree, no, the blue saree..uh, I forget, but I know his leering eyes follow me everywhere I go, even to the washroom…I know and the woman in the mirror also knows because she sees him, too…but someday, when my son isn’t home, I’ll confront him and give him a piece of my mind…someday…