This period of a couple of months, Northern Indians enjoy this beautiful, pleasant wind. The mood is like:
Listen to the shuffling of the songs
as each pass their baton forward
and fall carelessly
from carrying too much sweat in their body
Source: [Nandini Varma’s Blog]
In Indian Calendar, this season is called Magha-Phalguna.
The air is breathtakingly pleasant, and it’s still a little cold, which is a perfect fit. I feel like writing a poem, but the words aren’t coming right now. This wind is the culprit for the days’ long wars with my mother when I was a teenager. I’d want to grow my hair long, just so that I could let them loose in this wind. This is a kind of wind, you feel when you’re watching A Walk To Remember, especially the last scene:
But her love, it’s like the wind, I can’t see it, but I can feel it.
I’ll always remember, those late afternoons…
That’s the closest of the words I could find for the feeling when I walk these winds. I’m not kidding when I tell you, that in these winds, did I first start writing. It was like rush on the skin, but slow, smooth, and it blossoms you like the first words you use to greet someone you don’t know, with a smile of endless possibilities. And you know what the best part is? If you are in the mountains, this feeling manifolds transfigures through the shutting down of your eyes before you know it. At the edge of a precipice. Ah!
Now when the eyes are closed, and the wind wants to host you, you can’t help but think of nothing, the mind doesn’t chatter, the world doesn’t care, you don’t care about anything. You are nothing, then. You are right there, with yourself, with your most updated self, in the present, like when the hum of a mosquito shakes you up into the right now, action.
I wish the poem about this comes. Yes, my poems come. I don’t write them, I don’t know who does, I don’t even know if there is someone or something that does, or if it comes out of nothing like the flashes of light in the vacuum.
To the winds, outside the window! (It’s starting!)