Cherry Blossoms

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