5 Minutes

“How long do 5 minutes last?”, a girl about four years old asked. Her eyes curious, sparkling as if some mischief was lurking behind them ready to burst out. Her father, a super hero in civilian clothes as if hiding in plain sight only to protect her little world, stood behind her stumped and wondering how to best answer the question without a wall clock. Five chunks of sixty seconds or one-twelfth of an hour wouldn’t be explanation enough for her curious mind, but he needn’t worry – she forgot the question almost immediately, enjoying the phenomenon unfolding before her eyes. She had five minutes before they were going to walk back to the house at the other end of the park. After that, she would only be able to experience this new wonder of nature from her balcony. However long five minutes really are, she was going to make the best of it.

Arms stretched, eyes wide open, she watched the little “fluffy things” fly all around her in the wind as she stood under a giant tree. It was magical and she didn’t remember ever seeing something so beautiful. Delhi summers were so far meant for lazy afternoon naps hiding from the sun, and the post nap wait for the evening to cool down just enough for parents to send their children out to play. This magic? This was so exciting that she would remember it decades later, except she didn’t know that yet. The cotton from Semal trees tall enough to feel like mountains in comparison to her little figure flew everywhere. Soft, fuzzy little balls were floating all around, almost surrounding her and making the world a joyous translucent grey. None of the words meant anything to her at the time – neither semal nor cotton meant a thing. It was her first dreamy story that she safely, unknowingly, stored away in her mind.

That story makes her smile even today as she drives through the Delhi traffic. After a long stay in another land far, far away where she worked day and night in a prestigious job for a proverbial pat on the back and because it was the best career move to make, she is back. The return to Delhi is the return home, a place where her soul breathes again. It is like someone under water coming up to breathe, and suddenly realizing that life is colorful, having forgotten it for months on end. She knows what five minutes mean now and how their meaning changes at different stages of life. For much of her childhood, five minutes were a long dreary time she had to wait for her mother to return to reading the story aloud after stirring curry in the kitchen. They were the five minutes where every moment felt too long as she stood in the balcony waiting for her friends to show up, or the last five minutes of class before recess at school.

Now, those very same five minutes measured in the very same way – the five chunks of sixty seconds or one-twelfth of an hour feel very short, as if they are but a blink of an eye. Now, those five minutes are barely enough for a proper hallway chat at work. They don’t suffice for much of anything besides mundane, every day, well-practiced tasks like brushing teeth. The emails, papers, text messages, and calls pile up every waking hour of the day. Five minutes are now the time you get to walk to a coffee machine and rush back to your desk or the time you take to get your car out of a crowded parking lot in the busy streets of Delhi. Hours speed away, daily, as if they’re running away from the world she has created – somehow trying to scurry along as if there is nothing left to life. Just like they are scurrying along right now as she pulls up at the traffic light near Outer Ring Road on her way back home from a friend’s place – another day of the India trip gone. Life is a funny thing – sometimes you’re running and your mind is still, and sometimes you’re completely still but your mind races far, far ahead tossing around thoughts of past and future. If you’re lucky the present surfaces every now and then, like it just did at this traffic light in Delhi. This is one of the busiest intersections of the city, and often one turn of the traffic light isn’t enough as cars and two-wheelers line up from every side. Cars surround her, everyone on the go and yet everyone very still. She gently rolls the window down to get fresh air, and a young girl of about four walks right up to it. She is holding a single red balloon in her hand, and with her dirty, tattered clothes, the blotch of red rising for the skies feel a little too happy for reality, as does she. The little girl smiles, gently cocks her head sideways as if asking a question and looks at the balloon for a brief moment. The unspoken question well understood by both souls in this quiet, loud traffic. “Would you like to buy a balloon?”, the unsaid words tumble out of silence and the sound of car engines. The 30-year-old woman in the car nods, asks how much the balloon is for, and fumbles around in the car for twenty rupees. The five minutes once again feel short to her, and she’s sure they feel very long to the girl standing outside her car on this summer evening.

She passes a crisp twenty rupees note to the little girl, a slight smile on her face, and simply says, “for you”, when the girl tries to hand her the balloon, because these five minutes are magic too.