Walking through Doors

Liminality of Grief, Microcosms of Silence, and Whispers of the Unborn Worlds

Namaste Friends,

September has arrived, unprovoked yet dancing on the cusp of shifting winds. It is a doorway between the vanishing luminescence of the long summer, riddled by monsoon, and the autumn resting on the crisp northern winds. By the end of September, the southern winds will slowly withdraw as the warm, moist, tropical atmosphere of the Bay of Bengal becomes swaddled in blankets of morning fog. The kash grass will sprout like hope, drinking in the morning dew, while the faint fragrance of shiuli lingers in the air like a ghostly herald of autumn.

Everything in autumn is lucid. The fertile land subtly surrenders to nature’s cycles of rest, the critters and crawlers prepare for long periods of inactivity, and the sun lingers feebly, casting longer shadows through the semi-bare branches of the deciduous sheesham and pipal, which once sprawled across the landscape.

I long for autumn, more so now that it looms near the precipice of transitions. I long for the northern winds to soot…