Living in Delhi, one thinks about the weather,

Only while suffering it’s appalling extremes,

As in Summer, year after year,

When searing heat waves are unleashed,

With unrelenting periodicity,

By the colossal fireball above,

Furious in demeanour,

Merciless in dispensation,

And drain the body of strength,

And the mind of reason,

As desperate beings- (humans included),

Wage a war for survival,

As dust laden winds,

Ferry sand from the deserts of West India,

Across skies bereft of clouds,

And cast a thick shroud of haze,

And unbridled malevolence,

That brutally smothers the will to excel,

And makes breathing a lesson in the art of endurance,

As parched dust enters the body, with every inhalation,

As lush vegetation, is swathed in sheets of brown,

With mercy of the forces that manage the universe,

The ordeal was planned to be over,

As rains were supposed to follow,

A benediction, which, over the years has remained only a mirage,

As desperate inhabitants wait, in vain,

In what is becoming, more often than not, an exercise in futility,

Where the height of expectations is matched by soaring humidity,

And little else, as falling water level,

Plunges hope to the nadir of desperation,

Till suddenly, one fine morning,

Towards the end of September or the onset of October,

When one moves out,

And observes that something has changed,

In a way that is longed-for,

The shrillness of the Sun is a tad subdued,

The tenor of Sunlight is soothingly diffused,

To an extent that is barely perceptible to the uninitiated,

But can be picked up by the discerning,

As if the mighty Sun is eclipsed by a celestial body,

Till one realizes, that it is not an eclipse messing about,

But a tip-toeing Autumn,

That is performing a melodious sonata,

In front of a craving population,

To quietly announce its arrival,

As nights challenge the autocracy of the day,

As periods of daylight start to shrink,

And fetish temperatures, after enjoying berserk runs,

Are finally reigned, at levels which are bearable, if still not enjoyable,

It is Autumn, in concert, which,

Although underrated by Delhi denizens, stands out for me,

As I discovered, a few years ago,

Having ignored it for far too long,

The soft, diminutive Sunlight, the placid breeze,

Tug gently at the strings of my heart,

Infusing an unusual feeling, that is hard to describe,

Tenderly poignant, or shall we say optimistically introspective,

Often without reason or rationale,

As one savours the changes that unfold outside,

As if the entire cosmos is whirring in a waltz,

To celebrate freedom,

After decimating the shackles of autocracy,

Which all extremities embody,

To bask in an interesting interregnum,

A sabbatical for retrospection, and repentance,

Of reaching out, and within,

In the midst of a gentle nip in the air,

Before the Sun rises and after it sets,

In the resurrected chirping of birds,

In the genial humming of insets,

In the reinvigorated green of plants,

In the subtle brushing of the breeze,

Under the aegis of an affable Sun,

Benignly blessing petite, fluffy clouds,

As they waft across an azure sky,

As ephemeral mists saunter across the landscape,

As a symphony of senses is put on display,

For one and all to cherish,

And bury deep in the bosom,

Before it will all be gone, as fast as it came,

As another horrendous Winter descends,

To smother the mildness of Autumn,

Under its tyrannical onslaught,

And bury the Autumn sonata,

Under the cold cacophony of Winter wails,

Making me wish,

If only it could have lasted a bit longer,

If only the wait could be shorter,

If only …..