This morning I went to work, with the smell of winter.
I know the September, October feeling too well in Shillong. It is not summer, yet it is. It is not winter, yet in an idiosyncratic way it is. The sun is warm, yet there is a tinge of the cold. Some people have declared winter, wearing warm clothes, thicker sweaters.
I go to work, with this heady feeling, with the sun slung across the shoulder, laughing, telling me summer is still here. But in my room as evening descends, I can feel the waft of the mild breeze entering. I shut the door. Outside the sun looks at us furiously. It is warm. Should I take out my sweater.
Today, it does not rain
Sun stokes a wild fire.
I write lines of past
with winter knocking
at heart's door.
I write these lines. A poem is always around the corner in Shillong. Shillong breathes pine filled, mountainous poetry. The hills greet me, and my morning cup of tea. The green and the blue combine in hues, combine in chiaroscuro of colours.
I look at my watch. It is still some more time to lunch. I continue to work. Suddenly its evening. The sun slowly melts, shadows lengthen and darkness straddles across the roads,shadows, celestial skies... The days are becoming shorter. Darkness with its shades, is appearing earlier. But I know it is still not winter!