Tonight, I feel as if winter is leaving. I ask if it’s too early and it whispers with such tranquility that melancholy settles all over me....
DEAR DIARY
Tonight, I feel as if winter is leaving. I ask if it’s too early and it whispers with such tranquility that melancholy settles all over me. With it, it will take away this tinge of cold that the wind carries; it will take away the rustling of the few leaves left on the trees; it will take away the flickering lamp posts covered in dew; it will take away the dark grey skies. I wouldn’t have the long sleeves of sweater to clutch on; I wouldn’t warm my hands from the coffee mug anymore; I wouldn’t wipe off the windows to see outside. I would no more curl myself inside the blankets. I would no more be sitting by the fireplace, a book in my hand, my thoughts drifting somewhere else. There will be no sound of the ticking of the clock; there will be no sound of twigs cracking in the yard. But there’s this winter that resides within me and how grateful I am for it. The cold has enveloped my heart so well, the briskness of the winter evenings creeps up in my veins and the blood congeals to form castles of the dark dungeons of my thoughts. The eyes change colour from green to grey and back to hazelnut, just the way winter arrives and leaves. But in all this, there is a realization: I, too, carry a winter within me at all times.
Until the first cold breeze of next winter passes through the open doors.
Until the hallways, the alleys, the pavements soak the bitterness it brings.
Until the silence of all the crowded places haunts me back to the cozy bedroom, the late mornings, and the early evenings.
Until I see the flickering flames of candle swaying to the tunes of winter melodies.
Until I drape myself in cashmere shawls.
Until I sip Kashmiri chai.
Until I drain myself to the point that as I fall into oblivion, winter opens its feathery wings wide open and I lay upon it, waiting for the morning table to be dressed in ginger tea and garlic bread or sweet cake rusk and warm cheese omelette.
Until I look up at the sky and find it turning maroon, until I can touch the velvety clouds, until the rain that comes down ferments into vanilla essence.
Until I make myself munch on pistachios, walnuts, resins, cashew nuts, and almonds without being guilty.
Until next winter,
I hope the next time, it lasts longer.
