When I picture winters in Duliajan, the first thing that blooms in my mind is a riot of Chrysanthemums and Dahlias—so many colours, so many shapes, each one seemingly painted by a different mood of the season. My favourites were always the multicoloured ones, little explosions of joy. Mother made sure the garden was at its very best in winter; every corner shimmered with blossoms.
And it wasn’t just the flower beds. The kitchen garden thrived too, full of vegetables of every kind. Fruit trees framed the house like gentle sentinels. We even had an orange tree—its branches heavy with tiny sunbursts. And the lemons! Their fragrance was so fresh, so sharp and uplifting, as though the air itself was smiling.
Unlike now, I loved staying outdoors then, wandering around the house, searching for blackberries hidden under leaves and shadows. The girl I was truly believed magic lived in everyday things. Writing about it now is the simplest way to travel back; a handful of words is enough to unlock whole worlds of memory.
Winter afternoons had their own rituals. One of my favourites was slipping into an oversized hand-knitted sweater—mother’s warmth looped into every stitch—and settling down on sun-warmed blankets spread outside. I’d sit there peeling oranges, relishing every bit of it, including the seeds!
Christmas had its own kind of magic. I’d look forward to meeting people, tasting the homemade cakes and pies that only my mother could bake to perfection. There would be a club gathering too, and I always waited for the jam session. I could never dance, of course, but I loved standing at the edge of the floor, watching the band play. Somewhere inside me lived the soft hope that one day I’d have a band of my own.
Life, however, chose a different path and I became a serious physician scientist. Yet those dreams remain luminous, untouched by time. Winters and chrysanthemums—they were, and still are, beautiful.
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