Disparate

• A few days back, coming home late one night, I felt a mild chill in the air. It’s mid-October, and winter is slowly making its way, I realized. Of course, the days are still warm, sometimes even hot, but the evenings have started to show distinct signs of the changing season. However, unlike the other places I have lived, winter here is mild and short-lived – none of those thick shroud of fog or biting cold days are seen here – but it’s pleasant and enjoyable nevertheless. As I was riding back home that evening, my mind flew back to many winter days and nights from yesteryears – the sound of dewdrops dripping from the mango tree near the window at night, back at my home; the fogs floating over the surface of the lakes in my college campus, adding bits of mystery to the drab winter mornings, when I walked to class; the bonfires I saw at the grandparents village, which besides giving warmth on winter evenings, were also a huge attraction in my childhood, often the smell of smoke clinging to the clothes as I fell into a cozy sleep; the grey winter mornings of Delhi, which seemed extremely dry, cold, and cruel. Also, not to forget, the heavenly delight of eating oranges sitting in the mild winter afternoon sun, especially after a siesta. Ah, I never realized I had been through so many winters already!

• In my building, just near the place where I park my bike, there is a pair of trees with tiny fragrant flowers; the air around them gets heavy and fragrant in the evenings when they bloom, and in the mornings they fall off and the ground becomes almost a white carpet of flowers. I know the name of the flower – shewali it is called in my tongue, but I think it’s known as prajakta here, also harshingar in some other parts – it generally starts flowering early October in eastern India and signals the arrival of Durga Puja. Though it’s associated with a happy festival, for some unknown reason it is known as a ‘flower of sorrow.’ Maybe, it’s because of its haunting fragrance, or maybe because the poor flower cannot withstand the harsh light of day. I don’t know, really.
  

• The other day, when I was in one of the training sessions, the talk veered to the concept of trust. The presenter said, “Trust is something like a tree – a long time is needed to make it grow, but it can be sawed down in minutes.” For some reason, I liked this definition, and it got into my head.

• Deepavali (or Diwali), the Indian festival of lights, is just a few days away. In many ways it’s a beautiful festival, especially with the rows of lights lit up at each household. The last few Deepavalis, I have mostly spent alone, watching the flickering earthen diyas, and it made me be at peace, despite the shattering noise of crackers in the neighborhood. These days, I realize, Deepavali doesn’t make me very cheerful or upbeat like yesteryears, but neither does it make me outright gloomy; only a feeling quiet well-being and contentment surrounds me on the festive evening, just like the soothing light of the diyas – it keeps the darkness away, but it's not so bright that it can dazzle the eye. Well, this is strange analogy, maybe. Growing age really does strange things to you!