I was alone and I was somebody. In these residential flats of the metropolis, I am alone and I am nobody. Long ago when winter came, people withdrew to their rooms. The balconies of these flats are deserted. Agitated by the confinement I sneak out of the room, brave the winter, to stand by the railing of the balcony—not touching it because its steel is ice. Within moments I begin to shiver because of the cold and coldness of balconies all around. Fear grips me—my neighbour or the girl in the opposite flat may not see me, I hurriedly withdraw.
I stand before the heater or make myself a cup of tea. Warmth returns but the coldness of the heart do not leave. Unaware, I tug my hands and arms under the coat, on the chest and start walking from one end to the other in the room—turn—walk again—turn—walk again. Stop—sit down in a chair, light a cigarette—can’t relax, squeeze the cigarette in the ashtray—ashtray tilts on one side—I loosen the pressure—with a cold thud ashtray returns to balance. The sound jars me.
Restlessness does not end—start pounding in the room again. I hear somebody in the corridor,
approaching—I stop. Knock on the door of the neighbour, the door opens with a creak,
a step forward and the door closes. Oppressing silence again.
I sit down in another chair. Stand again, walk to the table, pick up the cigarettes, matchbox,
ashtray and return to the chair. I place the ashtray at the foot of the chair—take out a cigarette,
open the matchbox—there are no matchsticks. The cigarette is still between my fingers—moments try hard to pass. I keep on sitting. It appears it has taken me long to decide to buy a matchbox.
I choose to go down by the stairs. Perhaps I may see someone—perhaps I may meet the girl,
who lives in the opposite flat and does not use the lift. It is silly and I smile. I see nobody, I meet nobody. With mechanical recognition, the cigarette-walla hands a cigarette packet and matchbox.
I do not need the cigarettes but I take the packet.
I come up by the lift. I must talk to someone. I speak—this winter is very cold. He does not answer and looks annoyed. He announces "Fifth floor" when I don’t realise, the lift has stopped and the door has opened. I must speak. I thank the lift-man a bit loudly, I think.
I am in the room again. I start smoking. The telephone rings. I rush to pick up the receiver.
I listen and reply, ‘it is wrong number.’ I do not know what to do. I lie down on my bed and sleep. Wake up in the middle of night—switch off the lights—sleep again—wake up again after some time—change my clothes and sleep again.
Winter days pass somehow, winter evening don’t. In the flats with the passing of every year winter is colder and longer, a year will come when there will be winter all the year around and I will be cold—I will not mind then—I think.
Suddenly there is warmth in the room. A tiny ray has managed to penetrate through the curtains
in the room and on my bed. I throw my blankets, pull the curtains, open the door and I am on the balcony. The bird on the railing flies away in happy swings and descends on the tree with black branches and yellow flowers. My hands grip the railing.
I feel warm and I feel winged. Why balconies are still deserted? I have discovered the summer.
I am scared no more. I look towards the balcony of my neighbours and at the balcony of the opposite flat where the girl lives. How long I stayed there I do not know.
I want to share the secret. I draw the curtain on the door—standing behind the curtains,
I peep out, shriek and withdraw. Everybody in their worst rush out on their balconies—balconies are living again. I watch secretly. They look to their left, to their right, up and down. Winter has made people strangers. Nobody appears to recognise even the neighbours. Not able to establish the reason of their rushing out—suddenly they look embarrassed and retreat.
Inside their rooms they begin to feel awkward—they come out again, one by one. Now they recognise and smile. I walk out on the balcony—triumphant and exchange smile with my neighbour He tells me, ‘the summer has come’, and I nod. I look at the opposite
balcony. The girl is there. I smile and she smiles, too. My neighbour is suspicious. The telephone rings. I leave the balcony to receive the telephone. The voice—‘Haven’t seen you for long. Why don’t you come over for dinner to night’. I answer ‘it is summer, I will need you in winter when you won’t ask me. I replace the receiver and rush to the balcony. The girl is still there and we smile again.