The Moonface in the Balcony opposite

In the days before people had begun to sell their ancestral houses to the developer in exchange for three floors in the apartment blocks with all the rooms opening out to balconies, the chajja or chhat offered a mixed use space ranging from flying kites, sunning pickles and papads, hanging out the washing, sleeping under the stars and socializing with the neighbours. A lone ancient house with a terrace held out against the onslaught of highrises that had mushroomed on all sides. It was rumoured that it was owned by a nawab whose ancestors were known for their fabulous wealth but had become impoverished with the abolition of the old nawabi system. But the house and its aristocratic owner continued to maintain the façade of affluence aided by the antique doors and the jalis (openwork or lattice screening) seen in the balcony railing, and half-jalis.  They said that the nawab had married a former courtesan and had a beautiful daughter who no one had ever seen. Forbidden to reveal her face to strangers like all highbred Muslim women, the jali was her window to the outside world. A silhouette of a slender woman appeared behind the jali at sunset attracting the balconies in front to catch a glimpse. But the figure carefully concealed itself from the onlookers’ penetrating gaze stirring their imagination even further. How did she look like, this vision in diaphanous white? Could she hold a candle to her ill-famed mother, whose beauty was reputed to make her admirers swoon? Or was she a plain Jane, whose depleted dowry did not invite any aristocratic suitor to ask for her hand? Her latticework appearances merely added to her intrigue.

But Ayesha could watch everyone from her latticework chajja without being observed. She was going to turn 21 today and was tutored at home by some of the best school teachers. She had even appeared in the school board and BA Hons exam as a private candidate clad in a burqa and had passed with flying colours. She had now set her sights on flying to a University abroad where she could pursue a degree in medieval history. But the nawab’s dwindling resources prevented him from letting her walk to her freedom. She sighed and reconciled herself to life as it appeared through the lattice screen. Notwithstanding their dwindling savings, the Nawab was particular that the family dressed, ate and lived the way they were wont to doing in happier times. His wife, who had married him impressed by his opulent lifestyle, seconded him in all his extravagant decisions. Ayesha dressed in the finest embroidered muslin kurtis with matching ghararas [loose flowing pants] and diaphanous chunnis [scarves]. She wore antique jewellery that she had inherited from both her grandmothers. Following her grandmothers’ beauty regime, she bathed in fresh milk and honey to which crushed rose petals were added. Her hazel eyes were lined with kohl prepared at home by her mother using her grandmother’s secret recipe. Her hair was tied by her mother in a long plait with embellishments. The ittar prepared by the family perfumer made her smell of fresh flowers. Last night, her father had gifted a Rolex watch that belonged to her grandfather when he saw her excellent grades. Her mother had matched the gift by handing her grandmother’s heirloom diamonds that she had worn when she had turned 21. But where was she to display the priceless gifts except within the walls of her house? Her family did not believe in socializing with any of their nouveau riche neighbours who lacked taste and their circle of friends had contracted with their social equals either passing on or migrating overseas. Their only option, to eat out in the family room of an exclusive restaurant was also ruled out because of the curfew imposed on the city.

She woke up at the crack of dawn to the strains of a morning raga from the balcony across their haveli. Why hadn’t she heard it before? Perhaps because the movement of traffic on other days drowned all sounds other than that of automobiles. Unable to contain herself, she bounded the stairs upto the chhajja to listen to it. She passed her parents’ bedroom and found that they were still asleep. In her excitement, she had forgotten to pull on the mandatory chunni over her white chikan embroidery kurta pajama that she slept in and her hair was tousled. She hid behind her favourite spot behind the latticework to get a good view. She spotted a light skinned young man with aquiline features below a curly mop of hair cupping his hands to the rising sun and singing a song praising the dawn in a raga sung at that particular hour of the morning. She had never seen him before. Mesmerized by his voice, she floated into the chhajja without realizing that her face was unveiled. She stood transfixed listening to his pure voice when the song stopped and she found him looking straight at her. Their eyes met for a few seconds and the world came to a stop. She quickly cast a quick glance above, below, left and right and was relieved to see that there was no one on the road or any of the balconies and turned on her heels to make a quick escape. But she had done the unthinkable, exposed herself to the gaze of a stranger. What if her father were to find out? He would lock her up in her room for ever.

Ayan rubbed his eyes to check if the vision in white that had appeared on the chhajja was real or a figment of his jetlagged imagination. He was studying in a university overseas and had just arrived in time to bypass the travel restrictions imposed worldwide. His flight had arrived at midnight and he had reached his parents’ apartment two and a half hours later. Unable to go to bed since he had slept on the flight, he tossed and turned for a couple of hours before giving up and opening the door to the balcony to get some fresh air. It was a long time since he had seen the day break. He would always be working on a submission until past midnight and could never wake up before 7 a.m. But the euphoria of being back home added to the gloriously pink dawn made him break into a classical song that he used to sing several years ago when he was training under a well-known guru. As he sang a praise song to the dawn, his hands were automatically raised in supplication. Unaware that there was anyone else up at that hour of the morning, he sang on and watched the sky turn pink. As he waited for the sun to appear from behind the clouds, he noticed a willowy figure floating in snow white robes in the chhajja in front. Her complexion was like the blushing dawn, her eyes fathomless like the ocean, her lips ripe like cherries and her hair like thick dark clouds. He turned into a poet recalling all the poems he had read in school. He couldn’t take her eyes off her. But she was gone in a flash just like she had appeared. He wasn’t sure if it was his sleep deprived state playing tricks with him or if he really saw her.

Urdu poetry borrows the metaphor of the moon to describe the beloved’s dazzling beauty. Dazzling was the effect the vision in white had on Ayan but the Sanskrit term Chandramukhi [the one whose face is like the moon] did not quite fit the languid, intoxicating affect her face had on him. Lost for words, he could think only of Urdu verses from Hindi cinema composed by some of the best Urdu poets. He wanted to break into the ebullient mere saamne wali khidki mein ik chand sa tukda rehta hai [A piece of the moon lives in the window opposite mine]. But the popular song couldn’t arrest the mystique of the revelation he had just had. Perhaps the 1960s song chaudhveen ka chand ho ya aftab ho, jo bhi ho khuda ki kasam lajwab ho [Are you the full moon or the sun? Whoever you are, I swear by the Lord that you are incomparable] composed by an Urdu poet  could perhaps capture the sense of wonder he had experienced. He went back to his room, drew the heavy curtains and tried to get some sleep. A few minutes later, he was in deep sleep dreaming of the beautiful apparition who had held him spellbound. He wanted to move closer to her to gaze at her face but the more he moved towards her further she glided away. He could have remained in that ecstatic state for ever but there was Mother calling him to join the family for the special brunch she had made for his homecoming. He absentmindedly sat down on the table and popped his question. “Who lives in the house opposite our apartment block”? He had been away for a year and the family had moved in the spanking new apartment only last month. “Shh, don’t speak so loudly. They say that an old nawab who has lost everything except his aristocratic nose and manners is locked in the house with his family,” Mother furnished all the information that had come her way. “Don’t you peer into their chhajja. I understand that the nawab agreed to sell the land to the builder for constructing this state-of-the-art apartment on the condition that its occupants will respect his privacy”, she warned him. But who was going to stop Ayan and Ayesha?

Ayan went through the rest of the day like a somnambulist that his family suspected was the effect of jetlag and left him to snooze in his newly done up room. For Ayesha languorously lying about on soft bolsters and dreaming about the world outside was normal routine. But, on this particular day, she didn’t emerge out of her stupor even to get her breakfast of almond milk and dryfruits served in silver bowls by their old cook. Nor did she walk into the hamam where two younger female retainers waited to pamper her with a herbal massage and milk bath until one of the gently led her there. Today was her birthday and they had been instructed to dress her like a princess that she was. A white chiffon kurti and a flowing garara with a gossamer chunni embellished with silver keem khwab embroidery was laid on the antique bed. The girls dried her long tresses and brushed them until they shone, sprayed ittar and helped her in her new outfit created by the tailor whose family had served the nawab for several generations. Once she has ready, the nawab’s wife entered and clasped the diamond heirloom around her pale slim neck. “You look ethereal! Let none cast an evil eye on my daughter,” she circled her palms to protect her from evil spirits and escorted her to the dining hall where the nawab waited to bless her and slip on the gold Rolex watch around her delicate wrist. They sat down to a royal banquet spread on the twenty seater dining table by the khansama that he had been preparing for days. Ayesha blushed at all the compliments she received from family and retainers. But none knew the secret of her flushed cheeks. She spent the entire day basking in the affection of her parents who took turns to narrate anecdotes from her childhood. At dinner, she finally mustered the courage to ask her father if she could go to UK to study medieval history or art. The nawab’s stern expression told her that she had asked for the moon. He looked in his wife’s direction who informed her that she was going to be married to the son of a minor Raja this summer and the date had already been fixed. Her parents looked in her direction and smiled, “You will be able to get out of this crumbling mansion and live the life of a queen. Aren’t you happy, my princess”? But the profile that Ayesha was carrying in her mind was not that of the Raja’s heir. She went away silently to her room saying that she was tired.

Ayesha heard her parents making preparations to go to bed. The retainers had long disappeared in the outhouse at the back. The lane outside was absolutely silent with no movement of traffic or pedestrians. She waited for the clock to strike 12, checked her appearance in the carved bronze mirror, covered her head with the glimmering chunni and went up the stairs used by retainers to go to the chajja. She took a deep breath and gazed at the sky. “Oh my god! Today was the night of the full moon”, she looked wistfully. Slowly she let the chunni fall from her head to her shoulders and raised her face to the moon to drink the fresh air. Standing under the open sky with the moon and stars with her veil lifted was a dream that she had whenever she shut her eyes. Now she was actually standing unveiled under the bright moon and tasting the air of freedom. Ayesha began to sway gracefully to some forgotten music playing in her mind. The classical dance movements that she had seen her mother secretly practice when the nawab was still asleep came back to her. Each gesture of the hands, known as mudras, could convey a range of meanings. She tried to articulate her feeling of joy with the movements of her body, the hands, the arms, the limbs and the facial expression. 

In the hope that the wraith might appear again, Ayan had been waiting for nightfall to escape to the balcony. It appeared like that their timing was perfect. He stood transfixed by the beauty of the enchantress who revealed herself on the chajja in her resplendent glory. The moon lit up her face and caressed her chiselled features. Her long tresses had come loose and hung like dark clouds behind her shoulders. The dazzle in the diamond choker on her throat competed with moon. The transparent chunni that had fallen on her bosom accentuated her willowy frame. Her movements were so light that she seemed to be floating in the air. Her long arms and legs traced rhythmic patterns and she began to sway like a reed as the breeze began to blow gently. When the moonlight lit up her face, he could see the smile flickering on her lips and found himself gazing directly into her goblet eyes. Ayesha had assumed that no one would be up and out at that hour of the night. Suddenly she realized that she was being observed and stopped dancing. This is when she found herself gaping at the stranger who she had caught singing at daybreak. But he was supplicating her to continue her graceful dance. This time she danced like there was no tomorrow. She let herself go as her emotions directed her gliding seamlessly from unbridled joy to wild anger. Ayan watched her without blinking an eye for what seemed like hours. She stopped dancing only when the moon disappeared and pink streaks coloured the grey sky and her flushed face. She looked at him beseechingly, covered her head and was gone in a second.

Their silent conversation continued for the next thirteen days as the moon waned and disappeared altogether. At the stroke of midnight Ayesha would appear and perform a dance that expressed the emotions that she felt on that particular day. She was Radha decking herself up to make a tryst with the divine lover Krishna in the middle of the night afraid that she might be intercepted. She was Durga another day slaying the demon who came to molest her and Chandi her dark avatar on the next who broke into a maniacal dance to destroy evil. She was a seductive apsara trying to distract an ascetic rishi in his meditation. Over the next two weeks, she had run through the entire gamut of emotions and the colours in her wardrobe. The final one, of a helpless princess trapped in a palace almost drove Ayan to jump across the balcony and hold her in her arms. Ayan remained in the same spot every night, his movements restricted to gestures of appreciation and adoration. The moment the sky turned pink, the beautiful spook would disappear behind the door  making Ayan wonder if it was hallucinating. Ayesha’s soporific movements appeared to enhance her charms and her disinterest in everything around her was put down to her disappointment at being refused permission to study overseas. Ayan night owl behaviour was explained as an extended jetlag and his family left him to find his schedule. None of the families or the neighbours had any clue to their nocturnal trysts.

On the night of the new moon, Ayan flung the balcony door open to check if he would be able to see her if she were to appear. He waited the entire night. But Ayesha did not appear. The next morning the curfew was removed and he could hear strains of shehnai wafting from the haveli opposite. He glanced inquiringly in his mother’s direction. His mother seemed very excited, “The nawab’s daughter is getting married. He has invited some women including me to be part of the mehndi ceremony. What do you think I should wear? My pink benarasi sari or the red kanchipuram?” But Ayan did not hear her and stared at her dumbstruck. “To whom”, he heard himself ask hoarsely. “Who else but to the Raja’s son”?. Ayan retreated to his bedroom and fell into a stupor. In his hallucinated state, all he could see was her. Three days late when he woke up, it was to the sound shehnai wailing at the departure of the bride.