Our Windows Have No Curtains
In this exquisite world of men with squinty eyes, among the clamor of Babylon and all her minions, like a pinprick in an anthill of sparkling sand, we sit in our tiny grotto. The bamboo grain of the floor is unimpeded by furniture, the stillness of the kitichen meets no refrigerator’s buzz. Our plants are praising our walls and ceiling – white like heavenly nebulae. On one side of this there’s the great metropolis above and below, to the North and to the South and as far as the eye can see. Yet we are separated only by a thin pane of glass.
On the outside – over there, there are curtains everywhere. There are people who walk the streets, see human faces and pretend not to see them. When met with a gleaming smile they lower their head and scurry into their holes in the wall. In their caves are black-paned electronic windows to sensual worlds, which they watch as though their eyes were hitched to a rope. They read newspapers and webpages which expose pecadillos in one section, and cry for greater privacy in another. They are very curious about the sins of others – and they work hard to hide their own sin. They cry against spying, phone-tapping, picture-taking, and investigation. It’s a torrent of salty rainwater that’ll soak our constitution, they say, it’ll make the colors of our nation’s flag bleed into the river. It’s unfair they say.
But here in this home we never complain. We’re busy as ants, and we sing, read and meditate. True, the eyes of others are often upon us. Though we work with other races and the other sex, never is a question whispered behind us, never is there a rumor that fizzles in our wake. Among all the flats stacked up into infinity, ours stands out alone. Indeed, it is only our windows that have no curtains.