Winter

Winter never really arrives. It spreads. Slowly,
in the wailing of gradually descending columns of chilly air
emptying the streets as it gets darker.
Out by the smog hugged shanties on the highway, in the dead of night
the first pot of milk tea boils on blue flames.
The bright yellow fire started by a homeless man is shared by
few patrolmen, intercity drivers, and daily labourers.
Winters don’t differentiate.

Over the years, it has always found a way to show that
everyone craves for a bit of warmth.
Yet, for all its gloom, winters compensate fairly too.
It brings with it blue skies and a sunshine that
splashes Nature with a burst of colours.
Orange and yellow marigolds, butterfly shaped pansies
blooming against the backdrop of a green garden.
Winter is about an afternoon siesta on the terrace,
blessed by the 3pm sun,
a cup of hot chocolate by the fireplace, in the evenings,
at a remote hill station bungalow.
Winters are more quilts and blankets than hoodies and jackets,
old world charms of Bran castle on a full moon night described in words.
Winters are about Christmas under the Park Street lights,
slices of plum cake from Saldanha’s, hot soup, and family picnic.
Winters are the hum of the first and last trains from afar.
Winters are extremes.

Winter resembles death,
quiet, unforgiving, and lifeless,
spreads slowly, and does not differentiate.
Maybe that’s why, when you touch dead bodies
they always feel cold.