It always seems full of possibilities to me, the month of November, and I eagerly await its advent every year. This time certain unforeseen circumstances and a heart bereft of hope has added a dreary tinge to my beloved month. So, I called on my inner list-maker and set forth to remind myself why I love November.
There is this brisk wind that ushers in the indigo nights in November. Cue to rummage through the old trunk and find that large, blue sweater with sleeves that overshoot the hands. And the never-ending nights hold umpteen cozy scenarios for me: get under the covers and start a marathon reading session, go down memory lane and rescue fading memories with the combined efforts of family, coffee and conversations with friends at a dimly lit cafe with misty windows, linger on a simple meal of spaghetti with garlic sauce and top it off with some red wine, and go on long drives without any destination.
Nothing feels more alive than sinking into a cold, silken sheet of water. Here public swimming pools shut down towards mid-month, but those early morning swims in November-shivering, gasping for air with each dive, awakening every single pore in the skin-has its own charm. Like a cold shower on a cold morning and cursing loud as you get dressed with shivering hands. Quirky fun.
The bleak weather can sometimes mar the enthusiasm of even the most ardent celebrators of the month. I tackle it by exposing my senses to uplifting cues. Singing along really loud to the songs of Lighthouse Family usually does the trick for me. Or else it is an evening of heart-warming Persian cinema, kinky Spanish movies, melancholic Polish films, witty British movies, dramatic Indian cinema, feel good Studio Ghibli anime or the emotionally manipulative Hollywood romantic comedies.
The joy of running a finger against the spines of books in my shelf that encase stories, entire worlds, that are yet to be explored by me! Here is my somewhat ambitious reading list for November: Oscar and Lucinda by Peter Carey
Silent House by Orhan Pamuk
The Reader by Bernhard Schlink
Toba Tek Singh and Other Stories by Saddat Hasan Manto
The Lowland by Jhumpa Lahiri
This echoes my exact thoughts throughout the entire year and I get an unexplained boost every November to rectify it. I want to do everything, try everything, risk everything. I want to banish ‘No‘ from the vocabulary for the entire month. The advent of my birthday in mid-November acts as a tangible reminder of the passing years and a ready reckoner of mortality, and catalyses the crazy impulse to try and cram a lifetime in this very month. And this utterly stupid instinct occurs every damn year.
Despite the mass commercialism of love with precocious-bodied Cupids and syrupy Hallmark cards in February, for me it will always be November that opens the doors of love. Is it some magic in the crisp air? Or is it the long nights that scream intimacy? An ordinary, hurried glance from the one you love can make you smile throughout the day. You roam around blue-nosed but with a twinkle in the eye. Midnight poets and stargazers are born. A happy anticipation hovers around every thought. Will he, does she, when we, maybe…
Waking up to the stillness of the world bathed in the pale light of an early November morning brings forth an unparalleled joy. Spending a few moments in solitude absorbing this unhurried and quiet beauty can fade away the chaos in the mind and the sorrow in the heart, even if briefly.
The near naked trees clothed in dying autumn foliage, the flock of birds that traverse foreign skies to land on the shores of a lake and call it home for the winter, the fog that envelops everything in sight, the very sparseness of the landscape in November sets the foundation of a fresh start with the new year looming in the near horizon.