The Window Knows

 Hello world by my word!

Do you know there is always a window that plays an important role in everyone's life. That one window. You know the one.

The same window you sit near when you are sad, staring at the sky like it owes you an answer. And the same window you rush to with your chai when you are happy, watching the world like it's a movie made just for you. That window has seen you in every version of yourself — the crying version, the laughing version, the completely blank version that just needed somewhere to look.

I think windows are the most honest witnesses we have.

They watch the dark clouds roll in before the rain, and they stay with you through the whole storm. And then — right at the end — there are those last few slow droplets that slide down the glass, unhurried, quiet. Like they're telling you "it's almost over now. you made it through another one." Even the sky knows how to end things gently.

As Shri Krishna said to Arjuna in the Gita — this too shall pass. A reminder that nothing is permanent. Not the sorrow. Not the grief. And not even the happiness. Everything moves. Everything changes. The window has always known this — it has watched a thousand storms end and a thousand celebrations fade into quiet nights. It never held on. It just witnessed. And let go.

And the wind. That soft, soothing wind that slips through when you least expect it — not asking anything from you, not trying to fix you, just sitting beside you like an old friend who knows when to stay silent. You didn't ask for it. You didn't expect it. But there it was, right on time.

We feel it in travel too. Most of us will always choose the window seat. Not just for the view — but because we don't want to miss a single thing. Those cotton candy clouds that look too perfect to be real. That golden hour light that spills across the sky like someone knocked over a jar of honey. We press our foreheads to the glass like children because something in us knows — this is the good stuff. Don't look away.

And in our saddest moments, the window holds us differently. We sit there and let the tears come, and somehow — somehow — it feels like someone has placed a gentle hand on our head and said "I know. I see you. It's okay." The window never judges. It never leaves. It just stays, and lets you feel whatever you need to feel. No advice. No fixing. Just presence. And sometimes presence is everything.

I go to the library sometimes and the first thing I do is look for a window seat. Always. On the hard days I sit there and just stare outside — not really seeing anything, just letting my eyes rest somewhere that isn't inside my own head. Because there is a saying that has stayed with me: "Sometimes we look outside the window not for the view, but to forget what's happening inside." And I cannot unsee that truth.

Every window has a different story. A different view. A different version of the sky. The window in your childhood home remembers a younger you — the one who used to watch for someone to come home, or count raindrops racing down the glass, or sneak a look at the stars past bedtime. The window in your favourite café has watched a hundred quiet heartbreaks and a hundred small joys. The window on the train has seen you leaving and returning and leaving again.

And on the cold mornings when the glass fogs up — do you remember pressing your finger to it and drawing something? A heart, your name, a meaningless little swirl. Like you were leaving a small proof that you were here, that you felt something, that this moment was yours.

But I truly believe every house should have that one window — the one that soothes you every single time. Not just any window. YOUR window. The one that became your comfort zone without you even deciding it would. The one you just kept returning to, through every mood, every season, every version of yourself. That window is not just architecture. It is home within home.

Now let me take you back to school for a moment.

You know that feeling — sitting in the most boring class, the teacher's voice turning into background noise, your brain completely checked out, staring at the window and silently asking the universe "when is this going to end?" And then. THEN. The sky starts going dark. That specific dark — the pre-rain dark that every student recognises immediately. And then that one strong wind comes bursting through the window like it paid no entry fee and owes no apology — papers flying, hair everywhere, someone's notebook dramatically sliding off the desk — and the WHOLE class erupts. Screaming, laughing, standing up, chaos. The teacher has lost complete control and honestly? Nobody cares.

The window just saved everyone from dying of boredom. As it does.

And then there were the uninvited guests. The monkeys. Sitting on the windowsill with the confidence of someone who owns the place, staring into the classroom like they were the ones being forced to sit through a lecture. Everyone suddenly wide awake, whispering, giggling, completely forgetting what subject they were even studying. The window turned a forgettable Tuesday into a story you still tell years later.

College windows have their own magic too. That one window in the corridor where you and your friends would stand between lectures, saying nothing important, watching nothing in particular — just existing together. Those were some of the best conversations. The ones that were never really about anything.

And every morning, without fail, the light comes through. Softly. Like it's tiptoeing in just to check on you. Like it's saying — "hey. new day. let's see what we can do with it." On some mornings that feels like hope. On others it just feels like light. And both are okay.

And then there are the nights.

Sometimes you just find yourself sitting near the window in complete silence, not looking for anything, not waiting for anything — just gazing at the moon. No words in your head. No thoughts you can name. Just you and that moon, hanging there like it has always been there, like it will always be there.

The stars scattered around it like diamonds someone carelessly spilled across a dark cloth. And slow music playing from somewhere — not to fill the silence but to sit inside it with you.

On the heavy nights you look up at that moon and you don't speak, but something in you is saying — "I don't know what to do. I don't know how to fix this. Please, just help me figure it out." And the moon doesn't answer. But it stays. And somehow that is enough.

And on the good nights — the really good ones — you look up at that same moon and you just smile. A quiet, full, grateful smile. Like you're saying thank you. No explanation needed. Just thank you.

Same window. Same moon. Completely different conversations.

And sometimes, in the middle of all of it, a little squirrel appears on the ledge — unbothered, busy, living its whole tiny life like the world isn't complicated at all. Or a bird lands, tilts its head, and looks at you like you are the most interesting thing it has seen all day. And you forget, just for a moment, whatever was heavy. Because how can you stay sad when something that beautiful just showed up uninvited at your window?

And then there are the goodbyes. The ones where you stand at the window and watch someone walk away — down the street, into a car, until they disappear around a corner. You stay at the window long after they are gone, staring at the empty space they just left. As if the window understood that you needed one extra moment. As if it was holding the shape of them a little longer, just for you.

Sometimes I genuinely feel like windows have their own algorithm, just like Instagram. Because how else do you explain it? The sky turns stormy exactly when you're feeling heavy. The light becomes golden exactly when something good just happened. The breeze comes in at the precise moment you were about to cry. And you sit there thinking — how did you know I was in a bad mood? How did you always know?

Maybe that is what windows really are. Not just glass and frames. Not just a view. But the universe's quietest way of saying — I have been watching over you this whole time. Every storm. Every moonlight night. Every boring class. Every goodbye. Every ordinary Tuesday when you just needed somewhere to rest your eyes.

And tonight, as I write this, I hear the city before I see it. The horns, the screaming, the firecrackers lighting up the sky one after another. I rush to my window — and there it is. RCB's second cup. Our second cup. The whole sky flickering with light and joy and something that feels like it was a long time coming. And tonight — tonight it finally did.

Because RCB is not just a team. RCB is an emotion.

I stood at my window and I cried a little. Happy tears this time. The kind that come when something you waited for so long finally arrives and your heart doesn't know what to do with all that joy.

Same window. Every emotion. Every version of life — the heavy ones, the hopeful ones, the ones that make you cry without knowing why, and the ones that make you cry because you are just so, so happy.

Nothing is permanent. Not the sorrow. Not the grief. And not even the happiness. But this moment — this window, this night, this city on fire with joy — this I will remember forever.

Look up. Look out. You are still part of all of this.

And that is enough for today.

— N.N