The Balcony Across The Street

For nearly two years, Meera did not know the old woman's name.

She only knew that every evening at six o'clock, she appeared on the balcony across the street.

At first, it was merely a passing observation.

Meera lived alone in a first-floor apartment in Gurgaon. At thirty-two, she had the kind of life many people admired. A stable job. A comfortable home. Financial independence. Weekend brunches with friends when schedules allow.

Yet most days felt exactly the same.

She woke up, worked, attended meetings, answered emails, ordered food, watched something mindless on television, and went to bed.

The balcony attached to her living room was little more than an afterthought. A place where dust gathered, and old cardboard boxes waited to be discarded.

One evening, while taking a break from work, she happened to glance out of the window.

Across the street, an old woman sat on a cane chair on her balcony.

A row of clay pots lined the railing. Often, the old woman watered them with great care. Not splashing water carelessly but tending to each plant as if they were her child.

The sight held Meera's attention longer than it should have.

The next evening, the old woman was there again. And the evening after that.

Soon, Meera began noticing teeny tiny details. 

The woman wore crisp cotton sarees during summers. She always wore her hair the same way every day; in a neat, tidy bun. She sometimes read the newspaper. At times she knitted. Or sometimes she simply sat there with a cup of tea, watching the city’s chaos go by.

This old woman always stepped onto the balcony at six o’clock sharp. She was never a minute late or early. And exactly half an hour later she was back inside her home. The routine never changed. 

Soon, Meera began looking for her for reasons she couldn’t explain. She began to expect to see this happy, contented old woman sit on her balcony every evening without fail. Many times, Meera would glance at the clock and think, she’s probably sitting outside right now. If it rained heavily, Meera wondered if the old woman had got someone to move her plants to the other corner so they wouldn't drown in the rain. Meera had also noticed the old woman singing and talking to her plants as she watered them with the utmost love and care. 

In due time, the old woman became a part of Meera’s day. She was unwittingly a silent companion. A familiar presence that made Meera feel happy from within. 

One Saturday evening, while returning from the grocery store, Meera stopped outside a nursery. There were several rows of plants lined up on the pavement. Without giving it too much thought, she asked for the easiest plants to manage at home that needed the least amount of care. 

A few days later, she bought some more plants and added them to the small garden she had set up on her balcony. The old cardboard boxes had been discarded. Now, Meera’s corner on the balcony looked more like those posts one can see on Pinterest. 

Every evening, at six o’clock, Meera would step out on the balcony and water the plants. And across the street, the old woman did the same. Many times their eyes met. But neither of them smiled or acknowledged each other. 

As days grew into weeks and weeks grew into months, the plants grew along with the strange comfort of seeing the old woman every day. Meera took work calls on the balcony; a cup of tea in one hand and her phone in the other. She knew the old woman was watching her, but Meera stayed to herself and never responded. 

One evening, Meera stepped out on her balcony. She was on a work call. To her surprise, the old woman did not appear. Meera double-checked the time. She paced back and forth, hoping the old woman might show up. But she didn’t. The clock almost struck seven when Meera finally gave up and went inside the house. 

The following day, Meera peeked through the window. Without realizing it, her lips curved into a big smile when she saw the old woman busy knitting, lost in her own little world of joy. Meera immediately opened the balcony door and stepped out. The old woman noticed Meera. Their eyes met. Meera waved and smiled. The old lady nodded with a smile too and looked down at her frail hands quickly working the knitting needles. 

One stormy afternoon, strong winds knocked over one of Meera's pots. As she rushed outside to rescue it, she looked up and found the old woman watching with what looked suspiciously like concern.

Meera laughed.

The woman laughed too.

It was perhaps the closest they ever came to a conversation.

Neither knew the other's name. Neither crossed the road.

Over time, Meera had realized she had changed. She spent less time at her screen in the evenings, and more time watching the sunsets. She became an expert with all different types of plants. Her balcony was nowhere close to what it was before she had started off buying her first plant. The old woman’s habits had quietly rubbed off on her, and she knew it. 

Soon, it was the middle of spring, and both balconies were blooming with gorgeous, bright, colorful flowers. On one particular Monday evening, Meera was quite busy with her work calls and online presentations. But as soon as the clock read six, Meera took a break and went outside on the balcony. She waited, but the old woman did not show. The cane chair remained empty. The plants were still green and bright. 

‘Maybe she’s not at home,’ Meera thought. 

The following evening it was the same story; the cane chair was still empty. 

‘Maybe she's out of station,’ Meera wondered, trying to comfort herself.

Another day passed. And another. A week turned into two. The plants on the balcony across the street began to wilt. Meera sensed something was wrong, although she still tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous. ‘That old woman is an absolute stranger. I don’t even know her name or anything about her life,’ she mumbled to herself and stepped back into her house. Yet the old woman’s absence weighed on her. 

Finally, on a Saturday afternoon, Meera decided to visit the balcony’s apartment. 

The apartment building looked older than hers. A security guard directed her to the first floor. The door of the apartment stood open. She found cardboard boxes had filled the living room. Many photo frames leaned against walls. There were piles of books stacked on the floor.

A man in his forties was carefully wrapping crockery in newspaper.

He looked up. "Can I help you?"

Meera suddenly felt foolish.

“Hmmm… Hi!” Meera began. “I’ve come to enquire about the woman who lives in this house. I… I

live just across the street.” 

The man waited.

"My balcony faces this one."

Understanding dawned on his face. He nodded slowly.

"My mother used to sit out there every evening."

“Used to?” Meera asked. 

“She passed away two weeks ago.”

There was an awkward silence in the room. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Meera said softly. “I don’t think I should have come. I think I should go.”

“No, wait. My mother loved talking about you. She even gave you a name. What was it?” the man tried to remember. “Aah, yes, the workaholic.”

Meera raised her eyebrows. “Excuse me.”

The man chuckled. “Well, yes. She used to tell us about you at the dinner table. And there was this one time you redid your balcony and added new plants; she was delighted. She made a huge announcement when she came back inside the house.”

Meera laughed. “What else did she say?”

“She said that you were always busy. Always working. Always on a video call or a phone call.

She mentioned you never sat down and constantly paced up and down, back and forth on your balcony. Hence she gave you that name - the workaholic.”

Meera felt a lump in her throat.  

“But once you started watering those plants in the evening, she was so thrilled. My mother said you were learning how to slow down.”

For a moment neither of them spoke. 

“So, you're moving?” Meera asked. 

The man nodded. “My father passed away last year. And now my mother. There is nothing left for me here.”

“Oh,” Meera whispered. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. It’s part of life,” the man said with a straight face. 

“I think I should leave now,” Meera said. 

“Wait, before you go, my mother always wanted me to give you one of her plants. She said you earned it, since you have become such an expert. I’ll get it sent over to your place.”

“Oh, okay,” Meera said. “Thanks. I will treasure it. It will be something to remember her by.”

Later that evening, Meera had plans with friends but canceled and decided to stay home. She wandered around the house, tidying up, and getting her little apartment in order. She peeked through the window and saw the same balcony empty and let out a long sigh. 

About an hour later, the doorbell rang. 

“Madam, there is a delivery for you,” the man said, sweating profusely. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief. “I’ll just bring it up.”

Soon two men entered Meera’s home and filled her entire balcony with the old woman’s plants.

Meera couldn’t believe her eyes. She looked across the street and saw the forty-year-old man waving at her. He smiled and gave her a thumbs up. 

“You’ve earned it,” she recalled the man’s words. 

The next morning, a moving truck arrived. And by evening, the apartment stood empty. 

For the first time in years, the balcony across the street looked completely bare. 

Yet out of habit every evening, Meera would go on the balcony at six o’clock, water the plants, and look across the street. Until one fine day, a new family had moved in. Two children ran through the apartment. Meera noticed new bright curtains appeared at the windows. A bicycle leaned against the balcony wall. She saw that different furniture had replaced the old cane chair.

The space had slowly transformed into someone else’s new home. 

Meera was overwhelmed with an unexpected sadness. ‘How unfair,’ she thought. ‘How quickly the world moves on as though the old woman had been erased. 

But every evening at six o'clock, Meera still stepped outside with a watering can.

She still paused to admire the sunset. She still noticed the first flowers after the rain. And sometimes, without realizing it, she found herself watching the world below exactly as the old woman once had.

She still wishes she had learned the old woman’s name. And she wishes she had crossed the street sooner. She recognizes that one nameless old woman had managed to change her life over the span of a busy street.