Like the initial months of an affair, October and November make me fall in love with the idea of winter.
But I’ve realized that my true affection lies in these sixty days, in the slightly chilly dawns and the windy evenings that arrive five minutes earlier with each passing week. This delicious prologue to winter is what lures me into thinking that maybe this year it won’t be so bad when my toes freeze each time I step out of the blanket.
But I believe I’m biased towards these months for a few more reasons
In the gated community, in which I live, there is a stretch that is lined with this specific type of tree, and I will google the name of the species as soon as I finish writing this post. Anyhow, these trees bear small,white flowers during this time.
They start blooming as the sun sets and if you come up to the terrace or stand in the balcony their too-sweet smell will make you stay there close to an hour.
It’s what always happens to me, at least.
The smell of these flowers also means Diwali is just around the corner.
Who cares if the calendar glaringly tells me it’s almost the end of October. So what if the date of the festival is being casually mentioned in everybody’s conversations.
For me, it’s close to my favorite festival only when I’m humming on the swing of my terrace, taking in the too-sweet air, wishing I’d worn a full sleeved t-shirt.
This time around though, there is something different. In the coming months I’m supposed to bury myself in the depths of my academic books, to surface only when it’s absolutely necessary. It’s twelfth grade you see. This year, I won’t have the time to do nothing or everything with careless abandon.
This time, October and November are shrouded in a whisper of worry for the future. Worry for the coming changes and ofcourse, for the life determining exams.
But as I sit here with a song by The Cinematic Orchestra playing on my headphones, worrying seems to be postponed for tomorrow.
Thank you for reading.
Until We Meet Again