Winters Of Bihar [A Poem]

Seasons are poetic by their very nature. They try to tell us something about what they do, what they bring, and what they take away. The shedding leaves remind me of emptying ourselves before blossoming into wholeness again. They speak of revival. This year’s winter was special and new to me in many ways. First, I was experiencing it from a geography completely different than what I had known until now. Second, I was aware in different ways to changes that were happening around me. What began as light cold shivers had now turned into biting cold breezes blowing through the wide landscapes of fully blossomed ‘sarson ke khet’.

Also read: A Winter In Wadrafnagar

The field journeys during these winters will always stay with me. Every passing moment, as we rode the bike felt like diving into a sea of fog. Freezing, yet wanting it to stay. I already knew that I’m going to be begging for some of this coldness in the summer months to come. So I was trying to hold on to these winters and savour them, even as they were squeezing my bones.

Noticings of the transitions that the season brought felt like something worth celebrating. Words of Mary Oliver felt more real than ever:

Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.

Not all of these could be captured, but I have made an attempt to click and write.

In Appreciation Of The Winter In Bihar

The sun.

I’ve never seen him so pale.

In the morning he was trying hard to shine but could only look white

Anybody woken up from a long sleep could’ve mistaken him for a moon.

By afternoon he had managed to bring back his yellowness.

But I was still able to look him in the eye, which seldom happens.

And then the day descends

The day descends but something in the air stays dense

You feel like saying: the mist is sinking

 when it clearly is floating

over those mustard flower buds

Maybe it was more about the state of my mind

Who knows who was trying to comfort whom?

…

The season does something to you

Lends it’s hand, calls you out

Come,

If getting lost into something is what you want,

Why not choose mist over endless streams of thought?

The trees look like they are getting ready for the festivities of renewal

They want to welcome the spring

And in order to do that, they say, we must shed and let go off first

Their bare branches pierce through the softness of the mist

The very next moment you receive a sting

for waving your hand in air

and disturbing dozens of suspended droplets

The mist isn’t as soft after all

At night you finally get inside the blanket,

paying attention to the silence,

the screeching horn of a distant train

But the loudest sound is still of the buzzing cold

Constantly reminding you of this season

Oh these winters, I call them unprecedented for a reason!

(unprecedented for me)

This field just outside our office has my heart!