An evening with influenza may not be the most poetic way to spend a sunset. Alongwith the nagging headache are the rising temperatures and the burning eyes. Usual respite lies in a double shot of paracetamol. It used to be different 3 decades ago. Fever meant lounging in bed all day. Drinking warm horlicks in diluted milk while Grandpa held me up from the shoulders. A visit from good old Kamakshya-Babu (Late Dr. Kamakshya Mukherjee) would pep up the spirits for his first question would needless be; "Heck! Isn't a young, heathy boy like you ashamed of what you have done to yourself?", followed by a presciption of pungent reddish mixtures that had to be custom made at the apothecary. Usually, the fever rose after sunset. With my head sticking out of the bed and a bucket placed underneath, Grandpa would repeatedly pour cold water to wet the hair, while Grandma would be caressing my forehead. The old lady would scold me for playing in the sun and for eating too many oranges. While the coolness of the water on the scalp felt heavenly, a drop on the face made me look up to see Grandma move her face away to wipe her tears. With that picture in mind, I would slip into the throes of most satisfying slumber. Life was all about "being flued in happiness".

The calender says it's winter. Parts of the world I lived in have a fine crust of snow, while others are happily tucked inside cosy blankets post the fall admiration of red and brown. Big fat squirrels have hidden their acorns and the lovers have shifted from the river fronts to the fireplace. The roses in India have spread their colours, while the himalayan foothills are mesmerized in the smoke of burning cowdung and rich steaming tea. Women across the North Indian plains revel in the bloom of their poinsettias, while the daily pedestrians at Chennai cherish the subtle respite from sweat adorned brows. With Christmas round the corner and the end of the school season, is there a new tomorrow that awaits? Or is it going to be a repetition of colours, people, behaviours, toys and hopes? I pray for a status quo of the changes in this cycle. For every time I raise my face to feel and smell the winter air, the colours, memories, flowers and people I have known rush in to make me alive. Alive to enjoy the neverending masquerade of sensations that cloak themselves under the label called "joie de vivre".