A sweet little winter has now passed, and we now stand at the edge of summer. Somewhere in there there is a sense of spring, the mark this blue earth leaves on us with all its colours. It is a sense of new beginnings, a second chance, a sense of renewal.
In the months between my last letter last year and this a lot more of you have come on board. I don’t know if some of you even remember that you have subscribed to this letter.
Unfortunately I have no refresher at hand for the old ones amongst you, (maybe the archives might help?), but I hope this letter and the subsequent ones won’t need one.
Some of you might have read the sole letter I wrote in between, over at This is my Newsletter. Many of you subscribed after that. I wrote six drafts of it before I sent the one that you read. In one of them I wrote this:
I write this sitting in Bombay where a whiff of winter passed us three days ago. And all the clothes for the imagined cold were out. Those clothes have laid low since a year. They have come out to the streets jittery, like prisoners on parole.
The whiff of winter is now truly gone. A possibly endless summer heat beckons. And while I’m not sure of the clothes, I am jittery about what I will write to you. But in spring there is hope; and the hope is that we have a great season of poems and prose.
Strangely, at the start of this year, the first album I serendipitously listened to was Bill Evans’s You Must Believe in Spring.
And so we believe.
I shall write to you soon.