By Christina K Sangma
Winter is a magical time, but what truly warms the heart and makes one feel alive is the season of spring. When winter ends, so do many of its little wonders. For Daphne, one of the most wonderful parts of living in Shillong had always been the oranges, apart from its endless beauty, rich culture, and the quiet songs of nature.
Shillong oranges were never just fruit to her. They were sunlight in the palms of her hands; little bursts of sweetness wrapped in bright skin. Every winter, they filled the markets, the baskets of roadside sellers, and the kitchens of homes with their fresh, sweet fragrance. Their colour alone could cheer even the greyest day.
But as spring arrived, the season of oranges slowly began to fade.
Strangely, that was also when they tasted the best.
Perhaps it was because things become more precious when they are about to leave.
And so, when the first soft signs of spring appeared, flowers blooming quietly, the wind turning gentler, and the hills beginning to glow green again, Daphne decided that the only thing that could make the season even warmer was a picnic.
A spring picnic, with oranges.
And of course, no picnic was ever complete without her cousins.
The place was decided almost instantly: Kyrdemkhla.
What a beautiful place it was. Straight, tall pine trees stood like guardians of the earth, and a clear stream flowed gently through the stones, singing its endless little song. Sunlight slipped through the branches in golden pieces, and the whole place felt as though it had been hidden away by nature for only a few lucky hearts to find.
The day before the picnic, Daphne went to the local market with a woven basket on her arm. She carefully bought two whole kilos of oranges, each one bright and glowing like tiny suns. At home, everyone was already excited. Her cousins talked over one another, discussing what snacks should be packed, who would carry the blankets, and which tiffins should be brought.
By evening, the kitchen felt full of life.
Tiffin boxes were taken out and packed with simple picnic food, sandwiches, boiled eggs, little cakes, and homemade treats wrapped neatly and lovingly. The oranges were placed safely aside, almost like treasure meant for the next day.
That night, however, excitement got the better of Daphne.
She ate three.
The next morning arrived soft and golden, as if the sun itself had decided to be gentle for spring. The air was cool, but not cold. Birds called from the trees, and the sky stretched wide and pale blue over Shillong.
Daphne wore a beautiful floral dress in the name of spring, and soon she and her cousins were ready. Their hands were full, picnic cloths, tiffins, a flask of tea, and of course, the basket of oranges.
When they reached Kyrdemkhla, it felt as though the world had opened its arms to them.
They spread the picnic cloth on the grass a few metres away from the stream and settled beneath the pines. The children laughed, someone ran too close to the water, someone else was already trying to open a tiffin, and the grown-ups called out gentle warnings that no one fully listened to.
Everything felt alive.
The oranges looked almost unreal in the sunlight, bright, glowing, perfect.
As Daphne peeled the first one, the fragrance filled the air.
And in that very moment, spring felt complete.
The scent of oranges mixed with pine, fresh water, and the smell of food from the tiffins. Sunlight touched her dress. The stream sparkled like scattered glass. Laughter danced through the trees. It was such a small moment, and yet it felt enormous, the kind of moment one never forgets, even years later.
Daphne sat there with orange-stained fingers and a full heart, listening to the people she loved and the world around her.
And as the peels gathered beside her like little curled petals, she thought perhaps magic was not always loud.
Sometimes, it was simply this:
A spring morning,
cousins and tiffins,
and oranges in Shillong.
