The winter blue is almost fading now. My favourite over-coats and floating sleeves have rolled their way on the top of my cupboard. My not so flattering body has found its hope away from the ‘gajar ka halva’ and I am busy relishing the last few morsels of the season’s last ‘Sarson da Saag’ and Makke di Roti.’ I am enjoying the short days and the lazy long nights, and yet, as I go to bed, night after night, I can’t help but feel sad about it continuing to get shorter.
Not very surprisingly, this feeling, often stretches itself to life. In the long rituals of deciduous trees, I feel I lose a part of myself. When the branches shed their leaves to protect the life that runs within them, I somehow know that we are no different. The only variation that perhaps remains is the way they make it look so painless.
Nevertheless, the shedding of yellow, for the green to blossom, is nature. And this is a shedding that is in coherence with the spirit of life. It requires no apology, and mustn’t come with any guilt. It must in fact be an occasional jolt that one shakes oneself with, to step out of one’s pale shadow. A long winter will follow indeed. One will definitely have to go bare; bare-skinned and bare-hearted. But the spring is sure to come. A spring that fills hearts with warmth, and the world with a new layer of life.
This shall happen annually for a few, once every two years for some, for some it might take a decade; and few very rare species are made to stand unfazed, evergreen, in all seasons. But none is stronger than the other. And none weaker. They are all different from one another. Each with a different mechanism to cope, and a different season that they shine in.
As the winter goes by then, and the spring approaches, and in places like Bombay, where summer is knocking the doors; one must remember, that the only truth about seasons, is that they keep changing!