Ode to November and memories of autumn

We don't really have an autumn in Delhi. Our summer merges into winter with only a brief transition heralded by the passage of Diwali. This means Keats's Ode to Autumn is just a poem for us. His “season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” is a haunting description, nota lived reality.

- Karan Thapar

This is where America and Europe are so different. Fall, as it’s called in New England, is perhaps the most colourful season of the year. The trees are clothed in shades of ochre, rust, magenta, auburn and deep green set against their own rich brown. Even though the days are steadily growing shorter, the sun bathes the landscape with a warm golden glow. The world looks like a picture postcard. And the rhythm of life feels like a lilting tune.

Twenty years ago, I arrived in Washington in the middle of fall. As the taxi drove from Dulles Airport to the Hay Adams Hotel, the other side of the square from the White House, I saw for the first time the autumn palette of colours I only knew till then from vivid photographs and eloquent descriptions. I was riveted. It was mesmerising. I spent the entire journey looking out of the window. And I fell in love with America in November.