My friend in Europe writes to me that their winters are too long. l wiggle my bare feet on the dew drop cooled grass. And breathe in my summer.
The orange Palash flowers have melted overnight, and flattened themselves into sage green leaves. On trees that had not a single flash of green but were heavy with fleshy turgid flame-like blossoms. Or has the orange fairy just flown to another magical tree-— the golden blooming Gulmohar, summers’ beautiful tender bride?
I am living an Indian summer after several years of living in the northern hemisphere. Fresh snow is breathtaking and the feel of cold wind on your face, when you are all bundled up, can be fun. But months and months of icy weather estrange you from yourself. As month after month go by in synthetic jackets, thermals and warm socks, an urgent sensation overtakes the mind and body. A desire to feel nature with our precious human body. Not through layers of sportswear ordered through phones and computers. A behaviour so routine that the purer calls of the human body are dulled.
I look at my scarecrow in the garden. Her name is Phoolwati to fit in with the village folk around us. She wears a cotton salwar kameez, an old rejected piece of clothing from the studio. But the colour is a bright magenta and it flutters lightly around her in the cool morning breeze.
An oriental magpie serenades me with a sweet burst of song. The little mangoes garlanding the mango tree are a promise of bliss.
I understand that I have a choice. To complain about the heat of the sun or to receive its rich healing bounty. My only task seems to be to remove all the blocks to the divine intelligence flowing through me.
Anupamaa Dayal
This fashion designer is about happy clothes and happy homes for happy women