Autumn makes me sad. It reminds me of the other autumns I have spent. When the yellow crisp leaves are chased by the gusts of slightly chilly wind, I feel nostalgic. I feel a sweet-sad pang of pain.
Autumn reminds me of the other autumns of my life. The other worlds I was in. The other me that I was. Etched in my memory is the day when sitting between our two ponds on a straw mat and reading Tintin- Adventures in the Black Island, I heaved a sigh as the birds were disturbed in their afternoon nap by the autumn wind that also dropped a tiny ladybird on my book from the lychee tree above. A few years later, the autumn wind met me on the terrace of my hostel as I was leaning on the edge and letting my mind wander on an unusually calm evening. The peels of the bells from the nearby Buddhist monastery- calling the monks for their evening prayer- still rings in my ears. As I was walking back home from college- in Kolkata some two years after that- the autumn wind swirled the dust, rush and pain of the big city towards me. And this time it was a yellow mango leaf that drifted on me as a token- a sign that here was another autumn. A crow crowed away as the neighbourhood slept in a silent and peaceful siesta.
Now in Birmingham, as the trees are losing their leaves for the year, and the colours of nature are fast disappearing warning the arrival of a gloomy, cold and depressing winter, the same autumn wind brushes against a tired me walking home alone from work. And yet again I feel that sweet-sad pang of pain.