That time of the year.
The Heart becomes more alive than usual.
It swells and shrinks.
It beats faster and hurts harder.
It is always on the edge.
Ready to burst with joy or break with ache.
The Heart shouts Home.
The sounds, smells, and all that noise.
The Heart recognizes, sometimes vexed and sometimes joyous.
Like a Lover whispering in the ear.
The Heart is smug.
The anticipation building.
The Heart embraces, like a secret love.
The only time an unsure flyer, will look out of the window.
The Heart is brave.
The Himalayas receding in the horizon, and Tawi springing to life in all its serpentine glory.
The Hearts beats, but you stop breathing.
Every Christmas, Santa flies over the majestic Ganga, leaving gifts for the children.
Heart says Life is Magical.
That Morning, waking up to the Parents pottering about.
The Heart hears and is a young girl once again.
The abandon of the child, when with the Parents.
The Heart is lazy and free.
When handsome young brothers bow down to touch your feet.
The Heart rises with pride.
The hugs from the Womenfolk in the family.
The Heart forgets the chill and grey.
The Unconditional Love.
The Heart grows arrogant.
Children blossoming in the sunlight of absolute adulation.
The Heart is warm.
The gossiping and whispering late into the night with the Sisters.
The Heart is lighter and laughs.
The adoring Nieces and Nephews.
The Heart is young and sings.
The Village Temple, by the River but without Dadi, shedding tears, as she would watch us leave till she could see us no more.
The Heart remembers.
Every year the Parents look older, frail and more vulnerable.
The Heart is afraid.
The ailing Grandfather.
The Heart breaks.
A few weeks.
The Heart feels everything.
It feels both strong and weak.
And then the Heart embraces Hope, as it leaves.
Till it returns.