The Snowstorm

It is that time of the year again, in this part of the world, the snowy, starched whiteness, the silvery quiet of the blanketed city and the music of the chilly winds. Sharing a short piece that I had written at the start of winter in 2012, following the aftermath of a snowy blizzard that had disrupted our lives for nearly 24 hours.


Image source: Lopa Banerjee


“This is the window of my room. Through its folded blinds, while I move in the early morning in a kind of trance, I see the sweet winter’s eyes. I feel the barren limbs of the trees, the icy paths and the frozen roofs of houses, through which winter speaks in hushed silence. In my room, as I wander among the ghostly infinity of this silence, I watch the faint golden light from a lavender sun, a word of praise for paint and the warm sun change to copious clouds of lathered foam.

Inside my room, I sit in the shadows of my restorative space and let the day pass in all its storm, noise and paraphernalia. Through the frosted glass of the window, the ice and the breeze, the storm and the calm together paint a picture of symmetry and curiosity, a sacred text where plastic snow beautifully sings in rhymes of silvery caresses.

In its madness and fury, the storm has desperately wandered in opaque abundance, plundering the dead grey grasses, the empty driveways and the labyrinth of the city streets with the wild shriek of a raven. As if in twilight anesthesia, I open the window and reach my hands through the freezing, suffocating scent of smuggled trees and wires, ravaged cars and vanished light.

My children at home watch out for the breeze and the slopes of ice through the misty glass door, singing Christmas rhymes and carols and dancing with the flutter of their angel wings. In the frenzy of the storm, I think of the endless children of the earth, desperately wandering in the garden of winter’s wonderland. I think of the thud, the crash and fall of homes, buildings, trees where some hours back, winter had danced in its verdant musical interludes. I think of the vibrant lives which turned icy and lifeless, buried in the cold bosom of the earth. Looking into the window, I learn, I feel how God has waded through a universe of white ghosts and loneliness of another world.

storm 2

Image source: Lopa Banerjee


In the icy, shivering world outside, the city blindly stares at a future of incandescent hope, a wonderland to share with all its inhabitants as it gropes in its crazy December mist, riding beneath the wintry chill. All is calm after the huge, sudden burst of darkness and devouring.

All this while, there is a quiet whisper in the wind: “Spirit of life and death, do protect the water, the earth and the sky. Amen.”


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