The Ballad of Seasons

By Tejal Bhardwaj

The kitchen, cobble-stoned and mud-walled was toasty and threatening to edge

towards ‘baked’. The window shuddered against a callous sleet that pattered faintly

against its wobbly panes. The kettle stood anxiously whistling upon the hearth. The

day was charcoal grey, throbbing under the weight of anguished firmament. The

peaks that stood guard in the distance were beginning to turn white; the winter of

life had finally arrived for Tara. Her cable-knit sweater was crawling with lint, her

hair streaked with ashen grey. Her bony and vascular fingers trembled as she sat

perching on the wobbly stool by a lilting flame. Her hazel eyes cascaded with the

salty waters of a lake that had remained frozen deep in the pits of her very being for

what felt like hefty epochs. Ironically, the juggernaut of winter tide kindled residues

of summer-nectar that began to seep through burrowed crevices. Her memories

were drenched in its gilded, yet faint glow.

Her mother, a tongue-tied, short –statured, almond-skinned and the harbor of

endless love, had passed away as silently as she lived. The skies paid their respects

to the silver-haired hermit who had existed symbiotically amongst sturdy deodar

trees and leitmotif foliage for more than half a century. The miniscule, arched hut

on the verge of collapse appeared to be mourning the fall of its last inhabitant.

A crestfallen thronging of villagers sat stooping on the carpeted floor, all of them

ruddy-cheeked skeletons with deep recesses bordering their eyes. Synergized, they

remained unmoving and contemplating their own trajectories.

A hunch-backed woman with a guttural voice sighed deeply, seeking Tara’s

attention. She mustered the will to utter, “She smiled with her eyes and laughed

from her heart. The woman never hurt an ant.” Despite having frost seize the

woman’s countenance and settle amongst her bones, she cast a balmy luminosity all

throughout the death infested carcass of a home. With these effortlessly stringed

words, Tara’s mother had been eulogized.

“Did ma ever know what they thought of her?” she pondered with a spasmodic

clench of the chest. Ere she could reach a conclusion, a man cleared his throat and

rubbed his hands together.

“Will you be staying here this winter?” he croaked with a tinge of altruistic

concern.

“I will have to head back to the city soon”, answered Tara surrendering to the

torrent of self-reproach.

“You should travel before snowstorms hit. The roads get bad. You will be stuck

here until the weather opens up again. ” His eyes fell to the floor.

Having exchanged glances, with congruent motions, the mourners arose. They

bowed their heads and slipped their callused feet into their slippers. Out they went

into the howling winds.



The winter that ensued was harsh, unkind and unfeeling. There had scarcely been

a peek from the inhabitants while the marrow of the hamlet was gnawed at by the

frigid devil.

However, the sap of life was fed with stories having traveled for generations and

thus the blood within its veins was kept warm.The firewood of the season put up a

courageous fight aginst its razor-toothed winds. The amber glow of lanterns and

kerosine lamps vanquished the darkness at last.

Spring befell the fields, canopies and thickets; a tepid downpour restored vigor and

plumpness of land.

As Tara wrestled with the door of her childhood abode, a melody, simmering with

archaic character, danced its way into her ears. Her eyes darted in no particular

direction. Her disposition calmed as a herd of sheep and their newborn lambs

stood grazing beyond a hedge. A crimon-lipped, scarf laden young bride stood

indulging in the scene. Maroon velvet draping her slender body, it fancied Tara

that the young woman was swimming in the azure blues of the valley and sipping

its scented air.

Enraptured, Tara got swept in the sweet daze of the golden moment that may have

lasted a second, an hour or an entire afternoon; there was no way to tell. She tilted

her head towards the sun and whispered, “I love you, ma”.

The door gave in with a rattle. What had remained airtight for months altogether

was now swarmed with melodies of spring. Tara’s mother, Chanchal, had left to

fetch water from a well in some other time far beyond her grasp. She had left but

her fragrance remained—peculiarly bound just to her. Her life remained etched on

those walls. It sat neatly stacked on the shelves. It ummed to the mountains on

silent nights.

Death, so it is known, shall remain attired in the shawls of life. The baren browns

of winter shall, time and again, be replenished with the elixir of spring. Such is life,

with its cheek pressed againt the thumping chest of death. Together, they spend

days making conversation, watching seasons change colours and drinking piping-

hot tea.

By Tejal Bhardwaj