Spring!
Found the equation for Spring, yet?”, I heard her asking me. I have always imagined flowers to be wiseasses if I were writing them as characters. Of course, the pun on Hooke’s law was not missed, but I let it pass. You cannot, should not, argue with a flower during Spring. I told her I sit somewhere behind those windows, farther in. I can see the sky from there, but not her. Miss me, she asked. Terribly, I replied. But we have experiments blossoming too, I told her. She cut me short before I tripped into the valley of explanation that almost all research people dig for themselves. She stopped me short by saying this.
Spring is not a prisoner of flowers. Nor is it just a message of fragrance on wind. It is culmination of efforts, a brief hiatus where you can sit and enjoy and see beauty unfold. It may just be an instrument plotting a graph that you got working. That is your Spring. You can be in the deepest, darkest cell of Azkaban or right in the middle of the Pacific or somewhere in the Gobi desert without bearings, and still have Spring in your thoughts. I am just a metaphor. Or better yet. Just a synecdoche. A small representing a larger body. The whole , is almost always, better than sum of parts. Keep finding your own Springs.
The poem from this time is an old gem by Faiz Ahmed Faiz, a renowned poet of the subcontinent. He has a vast oeuvre and has written extensively on love and the consequent tribulations, of which he may or may not have considerable experience. My point is, classy poet. Do check him out.
Original [Devanagri Script]
बाहर आयी तो जैसे यक बार,
लौट आए हैं फिर अदम से,
वो ख्वाब सारे, शबाब सारे|
जो तेरे होँठों पे मर मिटे थे,
जो मिट के हर बार फिर जिए थे|
निखर गये हैं गुलाब सारे,
जो तेरी यादों से मुश्क-बू हैं,
जो तेरी उश्शाक का लहू हैं|
उबल पड़े हैं अज़ाब सारे,
मलाल-ए-अह्वाल-ए-दोस्ताँ भी,
खुमार-ए-आघोष-ए-माहवाशान भी,
गुबार-ए-खातिर के बाब सारे|
तेरे हमारे,
सवाल सारे, जवाब सारे|
बहार आयी तो खुल गये हैं,
नये सिरे से हिसाब सारे|
Translation
Spring is here again, and it seems as if,
renewed and come again,
have and dreams and desires
from the time of Adam.
Those that had perished at the sight of your face,
and every time their death, brought them to life again.
The roses again are in bloom,
who were suffused with your fragrance,
and who were the blood of your lovers.
Raging again, are those troubles,
and sorrows and plights of friends,
who have been intoxicated by
proximity to such beauty,
and the mirages of relations.
All and the questions and answers,
we had before.
Spring is here again,
and it seems as if,
renewed and begun again,
are accounting books of old loves.
