Alvida once more....

When I reached Random Rubble on the evening of Feb 21^st, about a fortnight after I had last been here, I knew that Winter was leaving shortly: the evening was warmer than it had been and the canopy, that had begun its Great Annual Shedding of Leaves three weeks ago, was partly bare and open.  

Winter is one for leaving quietly: she picks her moments well and I have learnt, with experience, to anticipate her departure. There were moments in those early years when I would think of the many months to come before her return, weeks of stifling heat and evening showers, of two fickle monsoons and flooding, of squelching tyres and a sliding car as it worked the last lap, months of waiting….Today, I enjoy the days of every season, which is probably a testament to the self-help reading that each of us is assaulted with.     

Siddharth, a friend with a passion for wetlands and their conservation, had turned up and was waiting for me, for we had planned a birding trip to the Big Lake of the Mother-of-the-Forest the next morning (and that went reasonably well).  We sat under the stars after dinner and spoke of viruses, birds, science and venture capital and, about a quarter of an hour after I had gone to my room, getting ready to hit the sack, the howls of a pack of jackals filled the silent night.  It has been some years since I have heard them – far too long – but this is, to use a rather atypical phrase, such a February thing, for my notes seem to suggest rendezvous around Valentine’s (they have much in common with otters, which is a reason for my affection).  A minute or two later, the calls went silent and the village mongrels began their reply, one that was far too persistent, me thinks.

I know Winter is leaving when the palash and silk cotton flowers begin to bloom and the noisy rosy starlings busy themselves up in the tree, darting from one flower to another with an urgency that makes them seem like behind-schedule postmen checking post boxes in those days of yore.  

Stand below and a light shower of falling wine-red silk cotton flowers – gorgeously designed, shaped and coloured by evolution -  is destined to bless you (if Nature’s blessing is what you seek.  If you seek photographs of starlings, a sore neck will bless you as well).  And, just as Winter does, these starlings will leave when their time here is done, which is about as philosophical as we can get in natural history. 

When she, Winter, did leave two nights later, she left behind an enveloping mist that rolled in late – around 7 in the morning -  delivering you softly into the lap of Spring.  The morning mist, with its fragrance that suggests poetry and tea and langour, is what she leaves behind, much like a handkerchief with a delicate perfume that a girl would tuck into a boy’s palm.  So, it must be felt, savoured, inhaled, absorbed.  A cup of orthodox organic tea (preferably one in each hand) is strongly recommended.

And when the mist lifts, with the sun up in the sky and the portents of a warm day, the fragrance of mist recedes into transient memory.  I have learnt to live the moment in memory too - some call it nostalgia - with the expectation that the mist will roll in early on the morrow.  That the day after this day will be as today is in some way.  

Which, if you think about it, is a slice of some philosophy too.

The sunsets of Spring