....in my life...

A light crisp breeze, a clear sky, lots of sunshine, birds chirping, and the surprising privilege to actually see them moving around as they try to cut out the dry twigs and disappear into the pine trees....somehow I was reminded of autumn mornings spent in my native village in Murshidabad district, in West Bengal, India, when we used to go there after Durga Puja. The air used to be just this bit cool, just like this....and just after brushing I'd go on to the rooftop, putting on the loosely fitted red cardigan, waiting to get the feel of waking up slowly with the sounds of the place: the weavers who had started their work already, the birds, the distant radio transmitting sounds of radio stations based on Calcutta, and then Baba would ask loudly from downstairs whether we would drink palm juice, knowing fully well we were not particular aficionados of it, having rarely consumed it. But he would insist on having all of us "that seasonal thing" which "you'd never get anywhere in the world" and that was reason enough.

Just that slice of mornings came back to me, when I wasn't doing any of the tasks above. And then, why do I say mornings? All the mornings had something different to them, but the feel was same....perhaps that is why they collate together as somewhat a single image.
And today I was just standing outside a one-storey house....there was powdery snow on the ground, and heaped ones all around, the sounds were of cars starting and traffic signals being started on and off in a distance, and some white Canadian neighbours trying to get something in their cars. Nowhere close to the sounds I'd hear to really feel awake in those distant mornings in a distant land.

But the birds were there, the smell of trees were there, as was the sunshine. And strangely enough, --2 degree C seemed that same level of coolness as experienced in months of October in my native village. Not anymore colder or warmer, just that same level of coolness.

Nobody lives in that house anymore, people are either dead or they have left. It's always known that nobody can't revisit a particular time and space, but then it is probable......or may I say, possible to get a whiff of the same taste even though one is far, far removed from that temporal space.

Though I'm confused as to whether I should thank God or my memory or my tendency to hold on to things for such small pleasures in life. The bigger question is whether to thank anyone at all.....wouldn't a quiet acknowledgement suffice?