Neha Sinha

As we walked in a gully between two stands of rock, a shadow fell upon us. The source was moving in leisurely circles across the sky. The easy pace of the bird came from a confidence – the ease of a bird of prey for whom the sky is a playground. A Short-toed snake eagle was in the spring sky, shimmering white against the blue. Near us, closer to eye level, a Spotted Owlet snoozed on a branch. And behind it was the great panorama of the Aravallis – understood …

The fuchsia bougainvillea flowers snaked over the wall, the blossoms looking like butterflies. Summer was coming. There was a comforting warmth in the air: a soft caress, almost poetic, a love song. In the garden of my childhood, a bird was turning over dry leaves with its beak-sword. It had stripes on its body, like a zebra. And the body itself was orange. Each time the bird got excited, it would open its crest! I was positive the bird communicated through this crest. Perhaps one hoopoe would raise its crest …

I was feeling sick, with a fever crawling over my skin, and a headache knocking against my temples. It wasn’t covid – but it was seasonal fever. Each time the season changes, we tend to fall sick. And each time I am sick, I remember my mother’s kitchen. Depending on how poorly I am feeling, I have a hierarchy of comfort food. If I am really really ill, I ask for a thin moong dal khichdi, served with ghee. This watery concoction is something I would never touch unless in …

When you wake up these days, the world seems a bit different. It’s not just the fact that your glasses may be fogged over because you wear a mask as you face the day. It’s not because you’ve spring-cleaned the windows. It’s because the sun is warmer, yellower, deeper. The colour of egg yolk spills over in our life – and gone are the bleached, cold, harsh tones of winter. Things look and feel warmer through the prism of brighter sunshine – the yellow of Spring and Basant. All around …

The fog rolled out in the sky over us, like water spreading over a shore. The only light in that winter evening was from lampposts, and the fog curled its fingers around it. The world now looked old, sepia, like something seen through a screen of gauze. I was in a wooded garden, looking for birds and animals as twilight fell. In the cold and fog, things looked pearly and indistinguishable. With the added predicament of coronavirus, people were also wearing masks. Everyone looked like a humanoid, with age, gender …

Winter is the time for tiny birds. Tiny little tornadoes are in our gardens and parks – hopping between bushes, hurtling into branches, and whizzing out of sight. You can see them well only if they decide to pause for a second, between all the crazy energy they flourish in. Like little dogs diving from the carpet to the sofa to under the table before you can make out where the animal really is—these birds will go among trees, between grasses and under bushes with a giddy, maniacal moves. And …

I remember a muddy green carpet that had seen many tears, a man with a glass of coke on his table to make me feel better, and my mother whispering urgently to me. ‘It will soon be over, and then you will have what you like for dinner.’ And before dinner, there would be small sips from Dr. Singh’s twinkling coke. I was a small, terrified child, waiting close to other not-so-small but equally terrified kids for that dreaded thing: vaccinations. If one kid started wailing (even before the dose …

Winter comes with a sense of melancholia. As the days get shorter, the year also draws to a close. There is a sense of finality to things – you think about your goals, what you missed and achieved, and what you laughed and cried over. You pull out extra clothing, a once-a-year-pile that comes with its own tugs at the heart – a really old denim jacket, that hand-knitted but ugly sweater, the woolen cap you wore to a picnic, a pair of socks that came with a fight. I …

When I look back at 2020, I think the year went something like ‘January-March-April-May-May-June-June-June-July-July-July-July’ and a never-ending second half of the year. At the end of the year that seemed like it would never end, we can finally hope a vaccine is coming and life will soon be somewhat normal. 2020 has been stuffed with challenges, garnished with the tang of frustration. There are many things we have done for the first time, with nearly no help. And so, this is also a year of learning. One of the biggest …

If a puddle of water could be contained in cloth, then this was it. A strange bird looked out at me from lake-blue linen, shining between lustrous yardage that fell silkily around it. The lady I buy sarees from had curated sarees with animal motifs for me – knowing I would admire the unexpected patterns. Weavers from West Bengal had translated what they see often in real life on the cloth: a wetland, with a bird wading through it. On the linen, they had used the Jamdani technique – the …