Many versus in poetry and references in literature had led me to believe that winter is probably the most desolate and monochromatic season. Between Virginia Woolf’s ‘Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night’ and PB Shelley’s ‘If winter comes, can spring be far behind?’ I was convinced that winter was made of sorrow and for introspection.
And then suddenly one winter morning, I woke up to see frost glistening like a crystal under the warm rising yellow sun. Its texture was delicate and smooth and it was composed of crisp, clear inverted reflections of nature.
Soon I begun noticing other designs of the season. The raw scales of an orange resting on green symmetrical lawn grass. The lusty vapour of chai rising above a crowded silhouette background. The warm saturation of textureless snow melting on cool blue lines of my palm. And my favourite? The many strokes on the sky’s canvas— from oil paintings to grainy black and white film photographs. Was it possible to be grim amongst all these winter-crafted visuals?
Every year I look forward to winter. It is independent of my geography and the year that has been. This least-favoured season has become my reason to change, admire, endure and celebrate.
Read: The Kashmir I Met
Which season does your heart belong to?
All photographs © Amrita Das