An ode to Bombay winters.



I'll tell you about Bombay winters
The ones many will scoff at
The ones often called a poor substitute
For snow and frost and curling mist

But I'll tell you about early morning mist
That most miss
Wrapped in their dreams and coverlets and groggy exist
That mist that roams in the laden darkness
And the gifted quiet of pre-dawn solitude
That mist that creeps in through windows aflutter
And watches the shadows of wishes dance across your sleeping face

I'll tell you about the crispy cool streets
And its lightly jacketed denizens
Sporting secret smiles, painted by the wispy wintry air
That wordless, weightless freedom
From sultry heat that sticks to the back of one's hair
That sudden gust of joy reflected in shining eyes
Eyes that feast upon the Bombay winter sky.

I'll tell you about Bombay winters
Magical, subtle and short-lived
Yet, more memorable than months of stifling heat.
I'll tell you that it gladdens me
As much as the snowy slopes of Ooty
And the unbearably stormy chills of Garudmachi
Because the Bombay winter -
She struts into my heart with her understated elegance
Her delightfully cool demeanour
And she lifts my spirits
Colours my day
With so many shades of silvery grey.

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