In this quiet corner of the Northern hemisphere, where I am currently living, spring is just a metaphor. There is no warm sun, no green foliage and of course, no scented breeze. The roads and buildings never recover from the winter gloom. seriously, by the time they manage to peel off a layer of gray, the winter arrives with much pomp. New to this quaint city and for that matter homesick from this sudden change of life, I roam around looking for the blossoms, nowhere to be found but at the flower shops, stuffed in fancy bouquets. I try to spot a flicker of the sprightly sun here and there. But I fail and the wind transforms itself into a merciless butcher whenever I try taking off my gloves and hat. Recoiling, I sigh.
“Ah! Dear Spring, where art thou? ”
May be in this part of the world, spring feels like this or it will approach late or the city will just skip the most beautiful season and simply roll over to the summers just like a carefree teenager avoids serious introspections. However, back in the other world, my world, spring matters. There, the word ‘spring’ has a different definition and a garish affair with its inhabitants. It never arrives like a silent museum visitor. The arrival of spring in my home town is always a carnival with feral music and fragrant blossoms. Back home, spring is synonymous to festival.
Nostalgia makes me visit my sunny porch where I used to spend my mornings admiring my father’s garden. I can still feel the warm sun spreading into my body and seeping into my soul. Here, I peep out of my window and see nothing but concrete. The park in front of my whiter-than-snow apartment looks drab. Not a single sign of green or any colour. The apartment needs some colour too. May be the artificial flowers at the super market will cut down the despair.
Dejected, I go back to my book shelf and open my favourite book, a compilation of poems written by the 13th century legend Rumi. My fingers flip through the pages, yellow from use. I stop at the page that lifts up my mood every time I feel disoriented in this colourless existence.
I run my fingers over the lines
“Come to the orchard in Spring.
There is light and wine, and sweethearts in the pomegranate flowers.
If you do not come, these do not matter.
If you do come, these do not matter. “
Some reassurance comes to me that somewhere, in a different world, spring is doing its job; making people giddy and fall in love. For one fine spring, I fell in love too and that love has brought me to this part of the world. So which one should be called the other world I know not. But I will always belong to the world that gives me nostalgia. I get up to make myself some coffee. Everything has changed. The sweet and milky tea has been replaced by black and bitter coffee. While switching on the kitchen light, I realise that switch works differently. It’s upside down. I shrug, this is afterall “the other world”.
The writer is currently residing in Finland..