Across my tower, at a clear viewing distance, stands a small, dull building in the neighbouring society. It has a slate grey facade with unassuming balconies cluttered with ordinary articles from daily life – a cherry red watering can, a battered lawn chair, a string of coruscating lights.

I often find my eyes catching on the simple signs of life, like the woman in the red saree on the second floor who tenderly waters her plants every day, and the couple below her, laughing softly as their new cat tangles herself in the curtains.

What’s even more fascinating is how everyone responds to the rain; a man hurrying to rescue drying clothes from the downpour at the same time as an effervescent child sticks his palms out to catch a few drops of the firmament.

Sometimes I find myself staring at the plumes of smoke curling from a man smoking on the third floor, and I wonder what thoughts swirl in his mind as he leisurely places the cigarette between his lips.

Every once in a while, a new story unspools like yarn meandering across the floor, a new light flickering in windows, spilling people’s tales out into the capricious city winds.

From my balcony, I watch them all like a pocketful of constellations scattered across the slate grey building in front of my apartment. Each and every one of us, existing in a discordant harmony of the prosaic matters of life.