When Winter Left The Mist Behind.....

Random Rubble
February 5th 2023

Sometime in the last week, Winter went softly away.  Like a guest who believes that she is overstaying and would like to evade the ensuing argument, Winter eased her way out without a trace, leaving the morning mist in the lap of Spring.  I know that because the silk cotton tree is in leafless bloom, with a large flock of noisy, active rosy starlings helping themselves to the nectar, and a shower of brilliant wine-red flowers on the road; the flowering of silk cotton is the harbinger, the totem that Spring brings along for the short ride of cool, nippy nights and warm days before the heat of summer takes over.

Much as I – and about everyone else – would like Winter to stay on for a wee bit longer, the sunsets of Spring are beautiful and fiery and that is a fine, rich compensation.  To this bounty, add a weekend with a full moon.  I huddle on the terrace under the moonlit sky, basking in celestial company, with moments for desultory thought and just the feeble unmet expectation: will I hear the old eagle owl, with his ‘bubo’ call, or the screech of a barn owl?  Will a rustle in the grass show up a wild boar and her piglets?  Or – ooh la la – my old friend, Colonel Haathi?  This evening, though, is a no-show.  Maybe they have seen me and are waiting.  For, you see, big boys play at night.

The only sound I hear is one of temple drums from a village in the distance but the evening air in the hamlet behind me is silent and sombre: it has been a hard year for the farmers in our parts – the rains were ruinous -  and, of those who planted ragi, some say they will not plant it anymore, at least not for the market, for labour costs, boar and troops of macaques have ravaged the economics of a fine crop, one that is the mainstay of a millet mosaic and in their blood and diet. The price of ragi stalk though – fed to cattle - has risen to the point where it is no longer just a by-product; this year, it will be the only product.  Isn’t that ironical or is it just the norm when things are upside-down?   

And then I think of Kelu, the sagacious Kuruchiyar man from Tirunelli who once grew native varieties of rice. Seven days of sunshine, he had said, and seven mornings of mist were needed to ready the crop.  He stopped growing rice for the same reasons; the loss is as much ours, for his rice came with wisdom.   

So, under this moonlit sky, I think of ragi, bats, economics, stones, charcoal, rice and jackals, all the while wishing I could think of nothing.    It’s past nine and the night is cold now, so did Winter do a rethink and come back for that wee bit longer?  And will She say a Goodbye this time with a hug that will bring a shudder?
…for Gulzar once wrote:
Of the last season, there must be some sign
Some old pain, an old memory
Surely there must be some story?

Some story.