Date: 28.2.22
In essence: thoughts on a January sunset > >
Sitting beside the window and looking out upon the mesmerizing winter sunset is a boon that not many people are blessed with. Well, I happen to be one outside of that group. Today, on the 28th of Jan, I found myself hunting for a proper blogging website to pen my thoughts down. And what more could be asked for when you have a laptop at your disposal, and a window looking out on the west? All you need to do is pull a chair near to it and begin typing; and type as long as the battery runs out.
As the sun inclines more towards the west horizon and grows softer and cooler every passing second, you think of the remaining winter that you have to entertain the chionophile in you. Or, you ponder upon the upcoming summer evenings, alight with cool breeze and the Bengali ‘shingara’ fragrance buoying through the air. You might also think of the Book Fair that hasn’t happened in two years in a row- the recurring faces of people all over the world, here to taste the salt of India and smell the Literary juice pouring out of volumes stacked up on stalls and sweeping out of air-conditioned shops, the singing of tribal folks and old band numbers with an orchestra of native music instruments that you’ve seen often but never knew the names of, the crowd of saree-clad ladies and men in punjabees hustling around the food stalls, the cheery voices of little humans trying buy their Roald Dahl or Nonte-Phonte.
Then you might suddenly drift out towards a more pessimistic thought of all those we lost since the last winter and how time moved on, and we made a full circle around the sun without them. And after you’re done brooding upon those thoughts, you tilt your head to the right and see the Sun vanished from view, hiding behind the cluster of buildings, now burning red in full view of the farmers, homebound cattle and school-girls of the Greater Bengal, leaving you with the fading luminosity diffused in air: and you know that it’s here only for a brief relish.
The daylight has given away and it’s a must you put on the bulbs to light your house. You may also wish to close the windows to stave off the crisp of evening to call on your abode. As you do so, you hear the water gushing out of a leaking pipe nearby. You hear some more windows shutting down - a squeak of wood, a clatter of framed glass, a click of the lock. You hear your neighbor blowing the conche and a sudden spiritual burst takes over the not-so religious you. You halt and admire the landscape, as the birds slowly settle down, their voices deadening one by one. The street-lamps glow up brighter as the dusk deepens, and all in once there’s a sudden silence befallen- no movement anywhere and no voices known; for a moment there is nothing but you, your conscience and a still portrait of nature and purple-blue sky. A moment stolen from time.
Ticking its way around the clock, the second’s hand catches your attention, and you read the time three minutes to six. A dark twilight outside- a drowsy melophile inside; you retreat to your room and put on a song reminiscing such winter evenings - thinking about a gramophone you do not have - and you wish to start with Lana del Ray’s ‘Dark Paradise’.
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