:)

One day, you'll be up before the sun, you'll be looking down from the balcony, the milkman will no longer be there, his young son will have replaced him. Street dogs perhaps might still be taking shelter under the parked cars, their tails, fluttering out from under the cars.  And maybe the old anna who comes and teaches driving, draws an eight with his red chalk, his dhoti mopping the road, maybe he won't be teaching anymore. He may grow old, feeble, crinkling. His grandkids may flock around him, I hope so. The parrots ramp walking on the tar that extends from your building to the one opposite, that young child next house, whom you wave at every morning, she'll grow up, flourish into a happy, easy, laughing person. :) And one day, she — grown up — studying, playing, enjoying, twenty perhaps, will come out into the balcony, look up to meet your eyes, but you'll not be there. You'll be gone before the sun.