The Spring Bloom 

Late February it is – she thought, standing by the window, holding a cup of sweet, scented coffee in her hand. She nudged a bone China doll smugly placed on the mantelpiece standing next to her. 

Does the doll know that it is often played with? She sighed. 

Her fingers stroked the doll’s immaculate features gently. She looked away. Outside, her garden was a riot of colours. The last bloom of this Spring, she thought. In a few days, the colours would fade. The lush green of the Turtle Vine would look weary as summer hits. The velvety Petunias would lose their fuchsia shine. The Calendula yellow would wither. Her whole garden would lose its infectious cheerfulness. 

Why is Spring so brief? She mulled. 

It was bizarre that the coffee tasted bitter in her mouth. She no longer liked it. She had put in extra sugar, though. Of late, she has been fond of sweet delicacies. She has abandoned baking the lemon cakes she usually bakes, and switched over to vanilla cakes, with sweet maple syrup thickly sprinkled over it. She has started keeping sugared candies in her apron pocket and once in a while, eyeing her surroundings surreptitiously, she would pop one or two inside her mouth. They say, she is no longer in the age that’s right for loving candies. All her life, she has not been much of a sweet-toothed person. Why now, then? Is it because sweetness is scarce in her life now? 

Is once a lonely wife, always a lonely wife? 

Arjun is out on his office trip again for the third time this month. He has endless meetings to attend, piles of files to sign, complex matters to solve. Arjun is the back brushed, crisply maintained, the intensely formal boss – be it at office or at home. Not that he dominates her, no. But he carries his office within. His professional commitments are always at the forefront. 

They would sit in what they call library in the evening, undoubtedly the very few ones on which Arjun would be home, and while she would die to tell him about the Wandering Jews that are growing up so beautifully, or the new brand of hot chocolate that she has tried and loved, or the lifestyle blog of hers that has gained wide popularity, he would sit unperturbed, lost in files and papers and laptop and PPT and what not. 

For her, Arjun was never there. Arjun couldn’t see her ever, she thought, or, couldn’t care less. Nine years of marriage, and she didn’t even know whether Arjun wanted to see her flowing, cascading, black mass of hair left open or worn in a bun. 

She put her cup down. She just hated this bitter coffee now. Slowly, she walked towards the front door, opened it, and stepped amidst the last blossoms of the year. She liked Spring. She loved it, rather. She would have to write this week’s blog, a professional freelancer that she was, and the blog would have to be on this. In her little township, trains whiz past – like dreams darting through a pierced heart that’s afraid to hope – at the dead of night. The Spring fog hovers in the air, and a chill nip makes her shiver when she comes out in the open,after darkness has gathered, to see the moon shine in the clear sky. Green leaves flutter on the branches of the Jamun tree standing next to her garden gate. Birds chirp even in the middle of the night. At dawn, she strokes the green grasses on her lawn, dew-lapped, wet. Scent of coffee and smoked almonds fills the air, and somewhere the last delicacy of the season, caramel pudding is baked during the late evening. Stormy Spring winds twirl thousands of dried leaves, already pale in colour, down the lane. 

Why is Spring so short-lived? 

“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? 

Thou art more lovely, and more temperate.” 

She stepped on the green grass of her lawn and felt breezy. And giggled like a kid. She always felt bubbly when she thought of him. Years younger than her, he would find her when she loses herself in the gloom. Spirited, romantic, and yet not weary of life in his late twenties, he tells her what she has always wanted to hear. It was this Shakespearean sonnet he had lent a beautiful tune to, and sang it aloud when they had met last. 

She loved meeting him. 

Their first meeting had been at a bloggers’ meet. He was fresh, and vivacious, and happy. Now, they would occasionally sit in a cafe that smells heavily of coffee beans and cheesy garlic bread, and buy one another coffee, looking into one another’s eyes. He was never tired of her, of listening to her pain, her unfulfilled desires, her midnight tears. Even amidst a crowd, he would find her. He could never miss her. His eyes would wade through even the most dingiest of places, thickly crowded, to her. 

It was he who made her believe that she was more temperate than a Summer’s day, than the short lease of Spring. She never made any commitments. She never even told him how she liked him. 

Well, let her be honest, at least in the solitude of her garden – she loved him. But then, he was so young. Why burden him down with pains she has borne forever? 

In reality, her heart throbbed for him. She was dying to respond to each text of his. She so longed to be kissed, to stay within the confines of his embrace. To be loved like there’s no tomorrow. 

But how can she have him? The thought rampaged her mind like a wild wind. Her throat parched. She stood listless, gaping at the setting sun, tears trickling down her cheeks. She should send him away so that he finds a girl of his age and starts afresh, she thought. But even the thought of him not being there made her feel shaky. She felt weak, as if someone is slowly sucking every drop of blood from her frail body. Oh! The ache of it all! She moved her neck and looked up at the sky. Her mind went blank. 

When did matters of the heart be easy?

Yesterday he had called so many times, and she restrained herself, not responding to any of them. Texts had been lying unseen. What else could she possibly do? 

And then, her eyes fell on the dahlias, already withered a little. She went close and touched them. 

Something struck her all of a sudden. Why could she always see the bloom and feel the gloom when they were gone? Why would she not embrace beauty when it was thriving? Enjoy the fragrance when it’s pregnant with juices? 

Instead, here she was, standing amidst flowers bidding goodbyes, standing at the threshold of her youth, standing amidst the lingering spring, strangely hesitant of love. 

WHY? 

Wasn’t she Spring herself, despite all the wounds? Wasn’t she in bloom? A little weather-beaten like the dahlias, but there they would bloom again, and so would she. 

She suddenly felt a rush of happiness inside. She could even gulp down the bitter, cold coffee. And it was then that she smiled the sweetest of her smile. Her eyes wandered far off, and rested somewhere. There, he is turning the corner. Anxious, head down, trying to figure out why she did not respond to his calls or messages. 

She smiled again. She was no longer afraid to love and live once again. She unlocked her phone, and opened the unopened messages. 

From the screen, smiled at her these lines: 

“I will bring you happy flowers from the mountains, bluebells, dark hazels, and rustic baskets of kisses. 

I want to do with you what spring does with the cherry trees.” 

It was a new beginning.

By Saheli Sengupta

Professionally a teacher, Saheli has a zeal for creative writing. Mukta Gadya (Open/ Free Prose) and poetry are her comfort zones, and she principally uses her social handles to publish them. Her writings have been published in different webzines and magazines. Saheli is based in Kalyani, a city a little away from the hustle-bustle of Kolkata, and thus is a lover of nature and solitude. She is passionate about her profession, music and creative writing. She can be reached at sahelisen1989@gmail.com