Bouquet of Marigold

My Ra,

January has slipped through my fingers like grains of warm sand, leaving behind traces of laughter, quiet struggles, and the scent of beginnings. The first month of 2025—how surreal it feels to write that. A year that once belonged to the distant future, a time we imagined in childhood as a sci-fi dream, is now here, unfolding in real-time. And yet, beneath all its modernity, life remains stitched together by the same old traditions, emotions, and fleeting moments that make up our days.

I welcomed the new year in the simplest yet most heartfelt way—at home, surrounded by the familiar warmth of neighbors and the hush of solitude when the night stretched long. The sky burst into a riot of colors as fireworks painted promises into the air, and for a moment, I felt the weight of time—past, present, and future—pressed into that night. Later, when everyone had returned to their homes and the city fell into a lull, I sat by my window, watching the leftover sparks in the sky fade into the hush of January’s first dawn. A cup of chai in hand, my heart whispered: Here’s to all that will unfold.

But oh, how resolutions have begun to show their teeth. The discipline I so confidently embraced on January 1st now stands before me, arms crossed, demanding consistency. A schedule that once looked like a path of golden intention has turned into a series of uphill climbs. Some days, I stick to my routines with unwavering determination; other days, I let them slip through the cracks of procrastination. And yet, I remind myself: Change is a slow bloom, not an overnight miracle.

Today, the world around me glows golden. It is Vasant Panchami, the day of Saraswati Puja, and I am grateful for the knowledge and wisdom she has trusted me with. Spring takes its first delicate steps into the world. The air hums with devotion, and marigolds—vivid, fragrant, joyful—are everywhere. They drape temple entrances, peek from garlands, and rest in the hands of those offering prayers. This festival has always felt like a moment of planting—both literally and metaphorically. As I sow fresh seeds into the moist earth of my little balcony garden, I think of the invisible seeds I am planting within myself: new habits, new dreams, new ways of being.

And in this season of renewal, I find myself unexpectedly opening my heart to new bonds. There’s a cat that has been visiting me lately—an elegant creature with fur like twilight and eyes that hold stories. He appears at my doorstep, tail flicking, and I, in turn, find myself talking to him as if he is an old friend. Perhaps he is. Perhaps all souls that cross our paths are familiar in some unspoken way.

I have also found friendship around me-gentle, kind souls who have entered my days like a quiet sunrise. In the oddest of ways, love has found me—not in a grand, cinematic way, but in laughter shared over coffee, in hands helping with groceries, in the soft understanding of words unspoken. It is a comforting realization love exists in the simplest gestures.

As my birthday countdown begins, I feel the quiet excitement building. The new ritual awaits—a visit to my beloved friend and the reflective evening walk, the journal entry written under the night sky, the silent wishes I send into the universe. Each year, I grow a little more into myself, shedding what no longer serves me, embracing what does.

And so, I step into February with the scent of marigolds lingering in my hair, the soil of new beginnings under my nails, and the belief that even when January disappears in a blink, something beautiful is always about to bloom.

With love,

2nd Feb, 2025