My seasons of senses..

If someone asked me 10 years ago what my favorite season was- i would have gladly said- summer. Purely for the fun of having vacations. Physically it did not matter. There were only 3 seasons as i remember growing up...

The rainy season ,

The windy season with no rains and when it i not very hot,

The summer season when one was always outdoors, unmindful of the heat and perspiration.

Over the years, one figures out seasons by senses, more than actual days...

A season when you cannot wear a cotton kurti and feel comfortable.

A season when one steps out and smells fresh flowers everywhere.

A season where mornings are misty and the morning water from the tap stuns the face...

A season when the horizon is a dull brown, and one when it is lush green..

One where you find greenish molds on bottles not opened for two weeks

When one clip is not enough to hold the clothes back on the clothesline..

When one can dry a load of clothes in half a day, and another where it takes two days...

When hot soup feels like bliss and another where ice cold water feels like heaven.

One just senses the change...

Two days ago, a golden yellow sky suddenly turned menacing dark, thunder and lightworks galore. The cloudburst left crowds stranded for cabs, drenched to the core.

Teeth chattering, clutching onto my bag for warmth, my heart saddens.The winds have changed direction, the rains are no longer going to be falling into my bedroom.

The monsoon , or what ever little of it was there, is officially over.

I become that grey hornbill, slowly scraping its beak against the aged bark, waiting for the next showers.

Silly somethings

On days like this,

when summer threatens to appear

I want to dissappear.

Under the cool blue water,

I could become a fish

Alas, its only a wish

I could just run home,

Snuggle under the bedcover

And take time to recover

I could leave for the hills

And stand facing the breeze

And not even mind a freeze

Instead, i sit here and stare

at this screen in a daze

Hoping to get out of this maze

Some lost feelings..

Edited to add: Very regional post ahead. Please pardon. Could not get it out in any other language.

It is Onam.

3 days of celebrations... and 10 days of preparation for that.

--Ammamma overseeing the quality of mud used to make mather/ thrikkakkara appan, and allowing us to make small utensils with mud to be kept around the mather. The pleasure of compring the neatness of small mathers' with sister and cousins

--Waking upto find dusted and polished "pookkooda"( flower basket) kept outside the verandah, ready to be picked up and dash off.

...scurrying to pluck the best flowers before the neighbour's kids get at them.

-- turning up our nose at the circle of plastered cowdung to put pookkalam, and forgetting about it as soon as the pookkalam takes shape

--Sticking flowers into tiny sticks and balancing them precariously around the mather. Selecting the best flower of the day to go right on top.

--The fun of crushing ladies fingers leaves into the arimaavu/ kolam maavu to make it easier to write the names. Watching mom write down all our names and stars around the Matheru. Watching the list get bigger each year with new kids being added to it...

The pookkalam and sadya were a given. That would happen anyway.

It was these small moments that made our onam.

Now, for Onam, we make pookkalam with market bought flowers, make sadya with all the dishes, but these small moments are what i miss giving my son.

Today he knows Onam as a festival. Someday, i hope he understands the spirit of Onam as i did.

Till then, we will live in this farce of a celebration.

Ignore my rants ..... Go ahead and have a happy and properous Onam.