March refused to end and yet, it just did.

I’m writing this today, looking at the calendar, seeing April finally take its place — and it feels almost unreal. Because for the past thirty-one days, March stretched itself so thin, so wide, that it felt like it would never let go. In Bangalore, where I live, the month could not make up its mind. It began with a gentle coolness, the kind that lingers in the early mornings. Then came the heat, sudden and insistent, announcing summer before its time. And just when that felt settled, the rains arrived — unexpected, brief, and confusing. Cold, heat, rain — not in seasons, but all at once. As if March was trying on every possibility before leaving. But the real weight of the month was never just in the weather. It was everywhere else. The world felt restless. News didn’t flow — it collided. The Middle East dominated conversations, not as distant geopolitics, but as something that quietly reached into everyday life. The Strait of Hormuz — a place most of us rarely think about — suddenly mattered. Ships carrying oil and LPG to India moved through uncertainty. Supplies tightened, demand rose, and something as routine as cooking gas began to feel fragile. There were reports of attacks, of ships caught in conflict, of retaliation and escalation. Stories of destruction, of leaders targeted, of nations hardening their positions. The kind of news that doesn’t settle easily in the mind. Closer home, tensions between Pakistan and Afghanistan added to the sense that instability was not far away — just closer than we would like to admit. And still, life did not slow down. If anything, it insisted on moving forward. Holi arrived in a burst of color — loud, chaotic, alive. Ugadi followed with its quiet reset, a new beginning tucked inside tradition. Ramadan began, bringing rhythm and reflection, a different pace layered over already crowded days. And in the middle of it all, there were moments of collective pause — like India lifting a T20 World Cup title — where, for a brief time, everything else seemed to step aside. But March never allowed any one feeling to last. That was its nature. Every time something settled — the weather, the news, the mood — something else rose to replace it. LPG shortages, shifting skies, global tensions, festivals, victories, anxieties. It wasn’t a sequence. It was everything, all at once. That is why it felt endless. Not because it had more days, but because it carried more than a month should. It felt like time was layered, not linear — like we were living through multiple versions of March at the same time. And now, suddenly, it is over. There is no grand ending. No clear transition. Just a date on the calendar that tells you it’s done. But it doesn’t feel done. Because some months pass quietly, leaving barely a trace. And some months stay with you — stretched across memory, unfinished in feeling. March was one of those months. It refused to end. And even now, in April, it feels like it hasn’t entirely left.