The Taste of Cold Days

the taste of cold days

Oranges, Kwai and Winter

...is a poem about the winter months in Shillong. It captures what it feels like to walk through the localities—breathing in the smells, listening to the sounds, and catching glimpses of the everyday drama unfolding in people’s kitchens.

Children playing skoi, with rosy cheeks that smell of Boroline and scraped knees.

Mothers, all wrapped up in their tapmohkhlieh and jaiñkyrshah, shouting at them for not wearing their sweaters, socks, and shoes.

Fathers telling their wives not to worry so much, yet with one look from their beloveds, they too go chasing after their kids.

Meanwhile, the elders sit outside in the sun,

with their shang kwai and oranges, chatting with each other,

laughing while drinking their tea.

Ktungrymbai, warm and delicious-smelling, seeps into the cold, crisp air.

Each house with a different version of it,

different smells of the same dish.

As the day ends,

The smell of pine and coal fills the air.

Teacups ring as the older siblings stir the tea,

whilst their mothers shout at the top of their lungs at the young ones,

“To ia wan noh sha ïing mynta ioh nga wan hangto”

(with love, of course).

Fathers sit with their cigarettes and newspapers,

talking of their stories and opinions.

Lovers choose to walk in the cold, wintry evenings.

No need for warm clothing, for love will keep them warm

as they walk hand in hand.

Finally, my favourite part:

when everyone gathers round the fire, the hearth of the home.

Grandparents with their grandkids on their laps,

kwai in their mouths, peeling oranges while telling stories

about how the olden days were the golden times.

Parents looking at one another with love,

siblings, loved ones, and pets all in perfect harmony,

while the smell of kwai, ktungrymbai, oranges, pine, and coal

fills the cold, crisp wintry air.

Oh! How it feels to be home during winter,

no matter how chaotic it can be.

Oh, how nice it feels to have all this coming soon in a few months! 

By Shailin H. Lyngdoh

Autumn

...is a poem by Deiphibakor Lyndem, a 19-year-old girl with a passion for literature and art. Who is always excited to try new things, learn, and grow. She believes in embracing every opportunity and exploring different paths as well. Her goal is to experience life in all its beauty and complexity and to become the best version of herself, or rather, everything she can be.

Autumn speaks to me in many beautiful ways.

Its crisp air and its beautiful leaves create a picture of cozy warmth and serenity that instantly lift my spirits.

I adore the way the brown leaves crunch beneath my feet as I walk through the street

—the satisfying sound echoing through the air is nature’s own symphony.

Autumn is incredibly pretty!

What excites me is the smell of hot chocolate that wafts through the air, making me want

to snuggle up in a soft, pretty cardigan—the kind that’s woven with love and care.

I want to wrap myself in its warmth forever.

As summer fades, autumn’s chilly breeze brings with it the magic of Christmas,

and I find myself falling in love with the season’s unique charm, the festive atmosphere,

that lingers in every corner.

There’s something special about autumn’s twilight hours too, when the sky is painted with hues of orange and pink, and lovers cuddle close.

If only I had a lover to spend autumn with—someone truthful and kind, someone absolutely desperate to chase the little sunsets with me.

Oh! To be in love in autumn!

But autumn, I’ll wait patiently… for a different kind of love.

A Christmas miracle! 

By Deiphibakor Lyndem

A Dance with the Clouds

Written by Anita Thakur from the serene hills of Himachal, she is the wife of a former Indian Air Force officer, having lived across continents before returning to her roots. Now embracing a rural, self-sustaining farming lifestyle, she weaves poems and short stories inspired by a life richly lived—grounded in nature, love, and real experiences.

I was just a little girl, no older than eight, living in a small, newly built town—Chandigarh. My school was a humble primary government building, not too far from home—just close enough for me to walk there and back every day. The journey wasn’t long, but it was full of small adventures that always made my day feel grander than it really was.

It was one of those afternoons in late September, right at the tail end of the monsoon season. The rains had just started to loosen their grip on the land, leaving behind the lingering scent of wet earth, and the air carried the weight of change. I loved the rains—the soft drumming of water on the roof, the dark clouds hanging low in the sky like a promise, and the way the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the next burst of thunder.

What made it even better were the little streetmates I had on Z Street!!! We were a rowdy bunch, always in sync with each other, and we had mastered a fine art—an art that many would consider trivial, but to us, it was a thing of wonder. We would grab our old, discarded notebooks, the ones with pages scribbled on and forgotten, and tear them into pieces. Then, as if by magic, we would fold them into little boats.

The rainwater in the streets became our ocean, and we would race our boats—ruthlessly competitive yet filled with laughter—down the small streams that formed on the road. None of us had ever seen a boat capsize. We were that good. It was as if the boats we made knew their purpose, as if the world around us had conspired to give us a perfect, tiny adventure.

On my way back home from school, the sky was a mixture of dramatic cotton-candy clouds and harsh, blazing sun. The weather at that time of year seemed to play games with me. There were patches of shade that appeared suddenly, as if the sky was teasing me, and then disappeared just as quickly when the clouds drifted away. It was a game I never tired of. I would start running toward a patch of shade, the coolness tempting me to race, but as soon as I was nearly there, the cloud would shift, and the sun would blaze again, forcing me to chase after the next shadow.

It felt like a dance, and I, a child full of endless energy, was its eager partner. Sometimes the shade would be just out of reach, and I’d find myself laughing—panting, but laughing—at the absurdity of it all. How could something so simple make me so happy? How could the sky—shifting, fleeting—become my playground?

There were no grown-up worries, no deadlines or responsibilities—just the simplicity of being caught between the heat of the sun and the coolness of the clouds. Sometimes, I would even forget where I was, lost in the game of chasing clouds and shadow. And in those moments, it wasn’t just the weather I was playing with—it was my imagination, untethered and wild, that danced alongside me.

It’s funny how a little thing like that—a game of shade and sunshine—could feel like the most important thing in the world. And perhaps it was. Perhaps, in the innocence of childhood, that was all that mattered: to play, to laugh, to chase something as elusive as a shadow and to feel, for just a moment, that the world was yours to run after.

I don’t think I ever really caught up with the shade—not once. But I didn’t need to. The game, the pursuit itself, was the joy. Even now, years later, when I think of those afternoons, I can almost feel the warmth of the sun and the coolness of the shade, as if I’m still running, still chasing. It’s funny how childhood has a way of wrapping itself around you long after you’ve left it behind. But then again, maybe some things are meant to stay forever—like the memory of chasing clouds, of dancing with the sky, and of being just a little girl, forever running. 

By Anita Thakur