Now I can write. Now that the man who was peeing in the neighbour's garden has gone, I can sit easy and write.
Autumn has set in. In full swing. Glorious. I personally don't think there is any other season better to be in Kashmir.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run;
There is an earthiness everywhere. Brown grass, red chinars, yellow leaves. And the fog that enshrouds the Sulaiman Teng (Shankaracharya Hill) giving it an air of mystery. I was hoping to go there for an evening walk, but I don’t think that’s possible now. Occupied somewhere else. But whenever I go, I’ll be posting some pictures here. I actually want to see how the city looks from the top in autumn.
Not just that, autumn comes with the permanent virtue of making you nostalgic. I never associated autumn with death and decay. To me, it was ever beautiful. A charm which spring or summer, or even winters, cannot replace. It belongs to autumns in entirety.
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For Summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.