A World Awaits Us
Growing up in a secluded mountain town, I always imagined the world as a snowy fairyland. Every winter, we cherished the joy of this white magic, its aura mesmerizing us. We paid close attention to even the slightest cloud movement in the sky. Our ears turned to our weatherman, my father. Whenever he said, “ ਮੌਸਮ ਪੱਕਾ ਹੈ ” it meant snow was imminent, and our eyes lit up.
As a safety net, my sisters and I looked out from one of our favorite windows—a half-open design with bright wood planks. Taking turns, we peered at the sky with chapped skin, expecting the auspicious flakes to embrace us. The snow settled delicately on cliffs, valleys, and the pathways of our town's tall deodar trees.
Our chores were straightforward: shoveling the entrance and walkways. If the water taps were frozen—they often were—we had buckets to fetch water from an alternate source. Our mother handled snow as a delicacy, only venturing out for essential tasks. When free from our responsibilities, we muddled in snow like sugar candy, creating prints, improvising a sledge, and indulging in snowball fights.
Playing in the snow is optional, but keeping yourself warm is necessary. We burned chunks of coal that came in cute lumps stuffed in a jute sack. Handling it meant signing up for some soot. We took turns firing it up in a robust cast-iron square with a sprinkle of kerosene and a spark from a wooden matchstick. As our clothes dried, we enjoyed the warm glow with rounds of banter and silly games. We snuggled under mighty quilts by night, eagerly awaiting the day’s ample hours.
The imprints of my childhood, the spirit of play, and the thirst for adventure continue to shape my life. The ability to express myself creatively directly results from that spirit, a gift I cherish.
The element of time encapsulates us in its peculiarity and rhythm, subtly propelling our sojourns. One pivotal event for me has been putting out my first poetry book, Time & Knots. It is a perspective on how valleys, curves, and peaks have molded me and my take on the unfolding of hours and their play.
The poem in the summer section, ‘Heera,’ is about the journey of that momentous mountain spirit—one that is unfazed by the odds, full of warmth, and grounded in the present.
Heera, my mother, is adorned in prismatic
charm—morning shine. Spirit tall, her stance reigns
higher than columns of pines. Her illuminating hands seize
the rusty shovel, eager to unsettle time’s breeze.
…
My day’s muses are noticeable shapes—
crushed stones, flakes of pine cones,
My untethered imagination flowing on the sandy floor.
Heera keeps me mesmerized with her mountain spirit,
her enduring mold, always the mortar of my core.
My yearning to create an illusion of permanence via ink is like sailing upward from a window; it is boundless, nurturing & inquisitive. The poem ‘Poet’ in the collection depicts this muse of existential and permanence;
Within his churn, the chapters unfold: poet, a revolution.
It follows after the ‘Welcome’ poem, where the identity of the self and the identity of the mirror have a conversation. The evolution of self in the maze of time & knots is unique to each of us, and that throbbing void in all of us is our momentum.
Consciously aware that the moment
of dawn is pitched beyond illusive arcs:
Still, the poet, Singh, is devoted to false charms.
Most wondrously, our spirit and identity are like the bold & delicate prints of a snowflake, which become powerful when we bring them to the grand stage. A world awaits us through our own stories, perspectives, and narratives.