Winters 2023

 

A new home is being constructed on the grave of Toona ciliata. Earlier, parakeets would sit on its branches. They would show their curvy bodies against the dense fog of a wintry morning.

Today, they sat on reinforcement bars belonging to columns of the future's structure. They also have found another tree nearby, which displays its bareness before the spring.

They sat like they would earlier, mourning for another loss. They wore quietude like they would earlier, against a heavy white morning. Did gossip of the town matter to them? "Oh! The winters are late! Its mid-January already! Oh, last time it was downright in November!", etc. etc. Maybe it never mattered. Maybe, what mattered was the arrival of winters, whether sooner or later. Parakeets chirped like they would earlier, when the sun penetrated the prevalent translucence. Maybe, nothing is late. Nothing is early either. Because these are relative terms which bind our gossips to a thread. 

Maybe parakeets seek life in the changes of time, unlike this society which often bothers me. Things perchance do not weigh for their early timings or late periods but for their sole form of being, whenever, wherever. And so whether it had snowed that day, or the other day, or the day before, or had it not snowed at all, I need to accept the minimum of this situation before my aspirations again soar. Just like these parakeets. That whether I do something in life that I want sooner or later, what should matter the most is that I do it when the season feels right. That whether the winters are late or early, at least the winters are.