‘He’ always looks at her from his unimaginatively small room’s innocent window. ‘She’ is a married woman with one kid, ‘he’ is in his late teens. Her face is something which always gives him a strange ‘great relief’. Her husband leaves for work at nine o’ clock in the morning and ‘he’ has stopped going to his college, so he stays all day long in his room, holed up, in vain hopes of catching his lover’s glimpses. She comes out in the balcony with her infant son. Her son, crying, always hungry for mother’s milk, she sits in the balcony and feeds the son. This is the moment for which ‘he’ won’t mind trading his soul with the devil. He forgets about everything. Just hundred meters away from his square-shaped wooden window, behind the curtains, he looks at her feeding her baby, while looking down at the street and talking to someone from some other balcony. Her infant son, lying in her lap and her face, indifferent and bored, always amuses him. He dreams of holding her sleek and tender hands and kissing her supple neck and not-so-full lips and she, unaware, talks about her day-to-day life’s mundane womanly issues with some other lady from some other balcony in her squeaky voice. He sits in his window, hidden behind that grey dusty curtain, looking at her with something shameful in his mind. He knows that he will never talk to her, and it was not a matter of courage but he knew that there is nothing to talk about. She doesn’t even know who lives in those windows opposite her balcony, she never bothered to take any interest in those soul-less square-shaped windows. He knows that the world which exists on the streets and not in the balconies and windows, would not be able to understand what he feels, his only accomplice or companion who knows everything about this illegitimate offspring kind of love is that square shaped window with her dusty grey curtains. Only the window keeps a track of his attendance in this class of unspoken desire. Early morning, sometimes, she combs her long silky brown hair in her balcony, still in her night-gown, he never misses the sight. Every night she comes out and stands with her husband, his hand on her waist, playing with her hair, sometimes they kiss each other nervously and fumble with each other’s face. He looks at her, almost all the time, no contempt, no jealousy, just with an unknown harmless intention or disguised repressed affection. Sometimes he feels like exchanging places with that man, her husband, who always likes putting his arm on her shoulders, but he knows that that’s never going to happen. He knows that nothing is going to happen, ever.