The midnight balcony

First line of an unwritten novel: "She left me with a lettuce spinner and a two jars of pickled onions."

Last line of an unwritten opera: "love like a bird flies away."

It's late. I'm sitting on the balcony of my delhi apartment listening to the sounds of the night. A radio plays shrill hindi songs in a guard house down the street. The suburb hums softly with the baratone of a generator and the tenor of planes in thrust taking off from the airport nearby - machine harmony. The monsoon is here and the air is juicy and hot. And so still. Delhi is sleeping behind its walls. A dog barks. Another plane roars overhead. Another dog barks. Another silence. The manic city rests, waiting for a new day. Dust settles.