Come yet another Saturday, and I am obliged to humour you, dear viewer. This Saturday fell one day afore the beautiful festival of Rakshabandhan, and being the ever-loyal person I am, I thought of writing this post with my brother.
There was an unforeseen trouble for the same: I have no brother.
At least, none who write.
Therefore, to fill the void and take on the duties as my co-writer, we have: my sister (more like my brother from a previous life.)
As I have trained my apprentice well, we both share a certain yearning for the change in the season, the numb of cold, the blinding sunshine, the call of sparrows... All that makes life beautiful... Hence, this post will be an amalgamation of childish personification and pretty verses. Viewer discretion is advised.
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(Yes, seasons again. I am the queen of this realm, and my word is law.)
#1 Winter
Day slowly dawns over la maison des saisons, and the wizened old woman cracks her toes on her now too high bed. Her head now furrowed with the previous days' strain, hair as white as well-spun cotton.
However, her talents lie with another fabric. These dried fingers could weave a sweater out of the sunlight passing from the blinds.
She rises slowly, her frame only fit for light exercise. Her tongue, however, could shoot cold barbs enough to decapitate.
She sits silently on her rocking chair, contemplating the neighbour's daughter's affairs.
There is comfort in her countenance.
Good morning, winter.
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#2 Spring
In a room adjacent to dear winter's, a rose blush steals away at a young maiden's visage. Beauty so unique, the walls all sigh in ecstasy. Her lips of the perfect rouge, her hair like gossamer.
"Grandma must be up" she thinks, as she slips into a floral printed shirt.
And this is where Spring, the elder daughter, meets Winter.
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#3 Summer
As the grandmother and her granddaughter go about cleaning and bathing and humming and scrubbing, a behemoth turns in his humongous boudoir.
The sun is up, and the chill of the early morning is lost. In the gathering heat, he languishingly picks up his glasses from a nearby table, ruminating over the mode of relaxation to put into use today.
Skin still young, though hardened in places; eyes still charming, but squinting behind glasses; a cool temperament, now tainted with random bursts of unexplained rage.
And summer goes about his day.
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#4 Monsoon
And the day morphs into nightfall. The weary mother returns from her job. She had left with the sun's first ray, returned with eventide.
Her hair flows like nightly showers, though now constrained in hair pins, it is devoid of its charm.
Beauty in her worn-out eyes...Still shines in foolish hope.
A silent soliloquy to surmise the sorrow in her soul.
And the clouds gather with the onset of dusk.
Monsoon is lost again.
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#5 Autumn
The trees shed leaves with the growing dark.
No one had listened to her call.
The youngest in her clan, she goes unnoticed.
A candle burns in her little room, where Winter comes over for the night.
Dear Autumn, much love.
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