On Jun 19th, as I sat looking out the floor to ceiling glass windows, wracking my brain for the right word while typing on my laptop, I saw the crane operator climbing to his cabin. I opened a fresh word doc file and typed the following titled – A Towering Compulsion. Next I created a Substack ID and posted it. Copying it here….
A TOWERING COMPULSION
Attacked by major FOMO, I sat on my Murum beige Millberget swivel chair from IKEA, staring at the tower crane outside.
A room with a view is a great blessing but a significant distraction. Instead of staying engrossed in my laptop, I often wheeled away (for better clarity) from my writing desk, whenever I was bored of reading what I had typed.
My apartment sits on a cul de sac, featuring ceiling high windows in all the rooms which opened to a balcony overlooking a road. A stretch of parking spots flanks the road below which leads to an apartment complex with few miscellaneous shops on the ground floor. Through every pane of glass, I get to see the cars vying for the parking slot and an ongoing construction site some 300 yards from our compound.
While the workers on the roof or the other ten floors largely charm me with their bevy of activities, it is the tower crane operator who gets my undivided attention. How the lengthy arm of the tower crane swivels carrying heavy loads, to drop them off gently on the ground, or to one of the floors is absolutely entertaining. I sometimes watch mouth open, fingers curled as the long arm almost grazes the building on the other side of the road. When the chain link on the pulley sways in the strong breeze, it looks as if a man with elongated legs was performing Michael Jackson’s moon dance. Oh, a sight to behold.
For months after we moved in, although I kept watching and tracking the movements of the tower crane I never sighted the crane operator. My husband suggested I wake up at dawn to spot the operator climbing up for his morning shift. Apparently, these operators stay perched upon their small cabins until a shift ended, carrying food, water and empty bottles. (He also said that modern tower cranes come with an inbuilt toilet.)
On an afternoon, hovering by the window I let out a shriek. I ran out to the balcony, grabbing my mobile phone. The crane operator was finally going up the rungs. I watched him take multiple breaks, sometimes clutching his back, sometimes resting on the tiny platform. At times striking a conversation with a fellow worker in the scaffolding.
I noted the time. This was probably a shift change. As soon as this man reached the top, I observed another coming down. The one who went up was lanky and wearing a blue uniform. The one descending was bulky dressed in a red T shirt and blue pants. Both wore gloves to grip the rungs.
Now, every day, between 12.30 and 1 pm, I am at my desk, sometimes with black coffee, to witness the changing of the guard. Also, I have typed several narratives – short stories, flash fiction with the crane operator as my unwitting protagonist.
Which brings me back to the major FOMO that attacked me: writing a Substack. I have subscribed to almost 20 Substacks. I read a few, I scroll through some, at times I delete without opening, occasionally I post a comment. Actually, that’s how I ended up with a Substack account. I had to register, create etc to reply on someone’s essay. I never had the intention of writing posts. Isn’t there already an abundance of opinionated writers out there?
But suddenly, when I saw people whom I had subscribed to were ‘following’ me, I worried if these people expected me to publish? Should I fall into this trap, egged on by peer pressure? Alas, what would I even write about? I do not have strong opinions about the world economy, nor do I have wise advice to dole out to struggling humans….
I am a simple writer, happily ensconced in my world of crane operators. Of mothers and nannies walking their kids to school. Of delivery boys dressed in reflective gear waiting to whizz off with hot food from the restaurant nearby. Of labourers sitting on the fire hydrant sipping chai. Of young kids talking on the pavement after their school bus drops them off.
Welcome to My Room with a View.
