Jharokha
My kitchen window…
…brings a square of the outside in; the hibiscus radiating its limbs all over it, its’ orange flowers fluttering against the cream stucco patio-wall, the coffee-tree teasing with a few dark red cherries, the avocado tree engulfing us all in its’ benevolent shade.
On weekends, I open the windows wide. Let all the fresh Southern California sun-warmed air in, along with the consistent stream of birdsong—sometimes the hummingbird buzzes close to the window, occasional bark of the neighbour’s shih-tzu, occasional shrieks of the kids across the street. I let a bit of me dribble out—aromas of ginger suffusing the milky chai, sweet-shop perfume of buttery pancakes, pungent tadka of mustard seeds in hot oil, hints of a life being loved, presents of human culture. Often, notes of the music I play waft out along with the aromas; listeners are subjected to anything from peppy Dua Lipa, to liquid-gold of Suraiyya Begum, to traditional garba, to honeyed tunes of Nina Simone, and K-pop demon hunters of course. The birds get to see us moving swiftly in the kitchen, kids clambering up and down the breakfast counter, shaking a leg with me often.
My windowsill started very aesthetic and minimalistic. A singular candlestand, miniature monolith of an electric soap dispenser, some cookbooks. In true life-well-lived fashion, things started to accumulate and broke the aesthetic spell. Now on the sill sit my kids’ coin collections—not piggybanks, they broke those already—but two non-aesthetic purses of coins and dollar bills. My son deemed the windowsill as the safest place for them, so there they sit. A clunky dish rack is next to the sink. The stack of cookbooks has multiplied. The cute wine-bottle-holder holds our mail instead and doubles as a bookend for the cookbooks. Kids’ water-bottles of various primary colors stand between these two. Cups half filled with water are scattered everywhere. A tiny succulent sits on the sill from last year’s mother’s day. An ugly fly catching UV light thing is mounted on the outlet. The sink is never empty for too long—not piled, but not completely empty. And I love this arrangement a lot more than undisturbed perfection. Signs of existence, happiness.
The window itself is just a slab of glass encased in aluminium, but I have seen windows with more depth. Wooden ones with niches of stars and moons cut out, so that when light passes through, magnified versions of those stars and moons splay on the floor or walls. Windows of frosted glass whose heaviness you can feel just by looking at them—strange arrangement which brings some light in but blurs everything else. Glasses tinted just so slightly to bathe the kitchen in a cool green or soft pink. Sometimes there is a metal grille outside the window, straight bars or intricate patterns of flowers or geometric shapes, the metal establishing a boundary firm but the patterns declaring it’s not hostile. I’m talking about India of course. Where the windows are also often painted in bright hues, colour blocking before it was en vogue.
I miss the patterns and shapes, the lack of uniformity, the little niches, the purposefully cluttered sills. Somewhere along the way, the West popularized minimalism in a way that robs spaces of life but to be fair, there is nothing minimalistic about life.
My kitchen windows have been modest in size compared to the living room windows that provide expansive views and pull a ton of light. But even that little sliver, or perhaps exactly that smaller sliver, makes it so much more precious! I have discussed the possibility of a backsplash entirely of glass so that I can have all of the greens of my little patio to colour my mind cool. We humans made homes out of concrete walls but couldn’t keep the outside away, couldn’t disconnect from our roots, and gave ourselves windows of all kinds as compromise.
On my walks, sometimes I allow myself the voyeur of examining strangers’ kitchen windows. I see figurines lined up, dangling terrariums, stickers of various beliefs, backsides of photo frames, Stars and Stripes…the knick-knacks all say a little something about the inhabitants of those kitchens. Even if it doesn’t align with my preferences and aesthetic, I have come to admire the thought being put into these spaces, the care taken to fill them with heart, personalizing. I don’t like it if the clutter is one of neglect, one of laziness, and perpetual, but who am I to judge? For my own sake, I don’t mind when things appear mismatched, but they must be thought out, filled with intent, they must hold deep meaning, doesn’t matter if it’s a rock picked from a foreign beach reminiscent of a family vacation or an olive-wood serving board from Williams Sonoma that was an anniversary gift.
I imagine a village in which the kitchen windows of all houses come to face one another so that the people inside can swap recipes, trade spices, share meals. That happens in some parts of India and the world, I’m sure. There is nothing more intimate than letting someone into your kitchen, making with them, showing them your mish-mash of a kitchen window.
