My apartment—A109, Soukhya Homes—is more than just a place to live. It rests gently between two living horizons. On one side, the world stirs awake in golden whispers; on the other, it settles into the quiet hush of twilight.
Life here feels like leafing through the pages of a sacred book—each day penned anew by nature itself, and I, both reader and witness to its unfolding poetry.
The East: A Liturgy of Light
The front of my apartment faces east. Morning doesn’t arrive with urgency—it descends as a blessing. The sun rises behind slender bamboo and tall trees, their branches filtering the light with sacred discretion.
This is not light that dazzles; it blesses. It slips softly across the floor, brushes the walls, kisses the skin with quiet reverence. As if the trees themselves know how to hold light, releasing it slowly—like golden ink from an unseen hand, scripting verses the heart alone can read.
No two mornings are the same. The sky shifts through shades of pearl, amber, and rose. The breeze carries a new rhythm each day, as if rehearsing songs heard only by the soul. The air hums—not loudly, but with intention. Each sunrise is a delicate unveiling, a performance never repeated, never taken for granted.
To the side, the terrace garden adds its own verse. Most of the year, it remains a quiet green—a contemplative presence. But sometimes, as if stirred by moonlight and patience, a long-forgotten vine blooms.
Its flowers are white—fragile, weightless, like breath turned to blossom. They scatter across the terrace like frost spun from starlight. Brief as they are, their beauty lingers—like the last note of a melody you wish would never end.
Below, flowering plants edge the building’s base in a gentle procession. Their scent is so subtle it might go unnoticed—unless you pause and truly listen.
I always do. Because here, nothing hurries. Everything moves to the slow rhythm of grace. This eastern face of my home is a poem in motion—written not in ink, but in scent, silence, and slanted light.
The West: The Wisdom of Stillness
And then—there is the west.
If the east is poetry, then the west is prose—grounded, contemplative, deeply wise. From the rear corridor, I look out onto fields that stretch wide and quiet, their silence broken only by wind and the occasional call of a bird.
These fields do not seek attention. They cradle the remnants of the day like an old friend holding your hand—not to guide, but simply to stay.
A new patch of pineapple plants rises here, their spiked leaves catching the last light like blades dipped in amber. Nearby, young banana plants unfurl their broad green leaves, while rambutan saplings—still slender, still learning—nod in the breeze.
Together, they seem engaged in a leafy conversation—wordless, patient, full of presence. The wind lifts their stories upward: quiet tales of growth and time.
At one end of the land, a narrow water channel winds through the earth like a silver ribbon. Its surface catches scattered light; its sound is a gentle murmur. Yet in that hush lies power.
The water quiets the mind. It softens the mental noise we carry unnoticed. It invites the heart to listen again—to silence, to breath, to now.
Often, I pause here—not out of habit, but out of longing. The air is cooler. Softer. It brushes my face with the gentleness of an old friend, reminding me to slow down. To be still.
Sometimes I linger for long minutes—doing nothing, needing nothing—just allowing the hush of evening to settle into me, as if I too were rooted in this land.
Between
This home—my home—is more than shelter. It breathes with me. It listens. It teaches the sacred art of being still.
And it offers two gifts: the east, with its promise of beginnings, and the west, with its gentle assurance of return.
In the east, I find wonder—fresh, sacred, alive.
In the west, I find rest—wise, quiet, complete.
And between these two horizons, I am found.
Each day becomes a verse.
Each breeze, a tender line.
And I—the quiet reader—live the poem written in light, air, scent, and time.