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".