The Warmest Winter

There is nothing that takes my time these days more than Salman Rushdie. In my overarching, over ambitious, Icarus like project to do a term paper on the post colonial issues of his novels, I have doomed myself to constant reading and re-reading, mugs of coffee, hours of nerve wracking research and multiple moments of sheer desperation. This is the first thing that comes to my mind when I think of the current state of my life.

What comes a close second is the change of weather that seems to whisper to me each evening, urging me to step out of the house, take a lazy walk, sit and stare at the line of mirchi lights all over the lawns, smell the newly sprouted blooms whose fragrance has invaded every open space in the city, buy some neroli and jasmine moisturizer, sit at my balcony and watch the moody rays of the sun come and go.

This is my favourite season of the year. When the monsoon has been chased away to give way to the cold breeze that hits you with a surprise one fine evening, when the fan makes you shiver in the early hours of the morning, when the day ends early and the dusk demands a sweatshirt, when you start to dig into the deep recesses of your lofts and trunk to bring out those naphthalene smelling woolens.

This winter is special. Like that long lost lover you meet after years. Like the nostalgia that hits you when you put on that age old over coat. Like the friends you made in the open air of the concert. Like the smell of the barbecue chicken that mom made on cold nights.

My tweed coat calls out to me. The heaters and the gloves beckon me. I can’t wait for it to be November. The coldest season of the year is the warmest to me.