Every spring, something grips me…makes me smile lovingly at
kids, even when they are crying, wearing those squeaky shoes and making a
racket…makes me call my mum more than once in a fortnight, our established arrangement
of interference…makes me reach out to all my friends and enquire about their
life without reminding them of the geeky school days …makes me (horror of
horrors!) say hello to the neighbor’s cat without showing it the finger.
It makes me resist my urge to throw a shoe at the fish
vendor, howling at the top of his voice in the morning, right before breakfast
when the constitution is frail. Or using my limited vocab of the official
language expletives, at the garbage truck, idling loudly right below my bedroom
window. It makes me use the plant spray bottle, my version of the air gun, go a
little off the mark while shushing the stray dogs below the balcony.
Telemarketers are greeted politely and even jested with a
playful touch, while cab and auto rickshaw drivers get a tip and perhaps a song
squeaked hoarsely and tunelessly if alcohol runs my life at that time.
I plan vacations to various places, especially Tokyo with nary
a care about the bank balance. I reach out to lovers’ future past with no
regard to their current emotional state. It makes me remember the pranks
carried out with detailed planning, destined to fail, at the lack of basic
logic with no embarrassment at all.
It makes me forget the transgressions of silly social media
uproars and the voices of both Pappu and NaMo …no Kejri and the AAPtards are still
not included. It doesn’t make my blood boil to see people loosely using the
word ‘Rape’ or being selective over the value of human life.
Every spring, I become a monster. Every spring, I wish the
monster would stay forever. Beyond spring. Beyond reality.
In our country, in Mumbai where there are only two climates -
Summer & Monsoon.
“I want to do with you
what spring does with the cherry trees.”- Pablo Neruda
