Sonder

I like watching people. 

I like films too, I like reading a lot too, but I like watching people the most. There is a word for it. 'Sonder'. It means the realization that every human being has a story as vivid as your own, a life no less extraordinary than the next. It happened to me when I was driving down G.T. Road, a thread that runs through India, as Kipling had called it. We decided to switch drivers, and I rolled up a joint before I took my place in the back seat. Something about those fields made me want to. The sun was setting in the North Indian plains, and its dying light glowed orange and crimson in a final display of glory. It touched the face of all those who were walking on the road beside my car, casting deep shadows on every wrinkle, setting every pupil on fire, making every hand heavy with gold, for thirty or so seconds. And as my eyes swam across that sea of faces, I realized what sonder meant. Word resonated with feeling as a smile spread across my face, and the last edge of the sun sank behind the horizon as I stood in attendance. 

That's when I realized. I like watching people.

Today I am watching people. This is my entertainment for the night. This is the reason for my existence. I'm a voyeur; I'm stealing moments from the couple that stays in the house across mine. If they are retiring to their bedrooms, I will not look. But I do not think that will happen. I have been watching them for a few weeks now. There is no love. Not that love is very tangible a thing. Not that I have known it. But there is no love in this house. I will watch them start to argue as I start rolling. By the time I am done, they will still be fighting. They will retire to their own rooms. I hope they don't do that, I hope they find each other. But they don't. And here I sit foolishly, hoping for a miracle, a viewer of a story that's already been written. I cannot intervene. I am as powerless as I was watching my heroes die on screen in a cinema. 

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It's a slow dance tonight. I play some jazz. Add some rhythm to my viewing of this particular film. I can't hear them argue over the sound of Miles Davis in my ear. I cannot see them argue either. Maybe they are tired. Maybe they have given up. Maybe the actors don't like this play anymore. Maybe the audience doesn't care. 

They are cooking together. He's putting some wine into the pan. Ah, a reduction. Too much wine for that though. It'll be a while before it gets done. They are talking in the kitchen now. They laugh. Flamenco Sketches comes on. I'm praying for a dance. It's a dance alright, as he cuts vegetables and she does dishes. Some sort of slow, ritualistic dance, as they stand next to each other. She splashes him. He splashes her back. The pan is smoking. They don't see it. They smell it a few seconds later. The song ends. Three second silence catches them laughing. I smile. They salvage the food. Next song comes on. They are smiling today.

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I think the food is done. He is feeding her. She likes it. He turns for a moment. She doesn't spit it. She licks her fingers. She really likes it. He smiles. He's wearing shorts and a collared T-shirt today. He feels young, Her hair is open. She feels pretty. They come closer. They are about to kiss. I smile. Ride cymbal rhythm. She looks out the window and sees me. Closes the curtain angrily. My smiling face is the last thing she catches. 

They've learnt. He has learnt to like his job, something he never wanted to do. She has learnt to love him, something she never wanted to do. It is pathetic. And it is beautiful. It is tragic. And it keeps them happy. The curtains fell on the stage as the actors changed the script, breaking the wall. 

I don't know if I should be happy. Maybe, maybe not. I don't really care though. My night is done.

I like watching people.

:)