With the April sun’s glare progressively harshening,summer find its way into my poems and carves out a niche there alongside the relics of winter.My words are strewn with strong perfume,freshly squeezed lime juice and empty ice cream cones.
Summer in Kolkata is anything but glamorous but arranged right on paper-the lengthening days,the bright mornings,the sultry evenings and even the sweat-can look so.
I feel like every new season makes a new person out of me…the peculiar combination of the visual and the sensory,changing with every passing month,has its way of moulding me,working its own unique spell on me.
Last winter’s dull heavy hunger has been replaced by something calmer,yet more rushed,a cry more muffled,more heavily laden by despair.
I am surviving and I can scarcely believe this miracle.I am always dreading the inevitable-this act will fall off,and I will be revealed to be a patchwork of wounds and scars.
But summer with its silken nights and riotous afterglows,seems to hush and care and love,after all,at the end of the day.
Now that it is summer I am no longer startlingly aware of the struggling behind every breath I take,my heart no longer feels too heavy a load to carry around.
It is summer and there is so much mellow and so much harsh everywhere.How can I differ?