Sahyadrica

Hemanta is one of the six seasons of India. It is the time of the year starting November and lasting until January. It was first described intricately in Ritusamraha – one of India’s most beautiful epic poems written by Kalidasa, commingling in words nature’s virtues in the six seasons with a tale of two lovers. Ruddy Shelduck returning to the wintering grounds The season is marked by a significant drop in temperatures, the returning of the migrant birds and departure of migrant butterflies. Along the coasts, they hover over comfortable numbers between twenty to twenty-five degrees during morning and twilight hours. Humidity drops and dryness lingers. Hemanta, or Hemant, is therefore generally said to be a pleasant season followed by Shishir (January to March), a season of transition. “Pleasant with many an attribute, stealer of the hearts of women, and at which time the confines of villages are overspread with many an abundant rice-crop on earth, and overlaid is the sky wi...

Monsoon is magic. If I have said it already (thrice now), please bear with me. This magic is not the kind we read in books. It is a heightened sense of seeing, of hearing, of smelling, of tasting, of being happy. Of love. It is a heightened sense of knowing: anything natural seems supernatural. Anything supernatural is no less than magic. And monsoon is just that – a heightened sense of everything. To be amidst the deep and dark woods or over the edge of a cliff while the cupid of clouds strike the ground with numerable arrows, is not only our time of happiness. It belongs to all the creatures of this world. Happiness to be alive, to be able to survive, to procreate. During this time of the year, it is monsoon that expands this emotion, even to creatures we so wrongly consider sphexish. A bee pollinating Chlorophytum tuberosum - a monsoon ephemeral As I followed the plants, I followed insects as well. Their lives are intermingled, and I find observing either without t...

Rain step-danced on the rickety asbestos roof as we savoured the delicious vada pav . It has only been a few minutes since we escaped from the frenzy city that now lies 700 meters below, 12 miles away. We’re in the land that Sahyadri adorns so well during monsoon, it is only when you touch it you believe it’s not an illusion. It is probably her greatest possession for miles north or south. The city-dwellers, like me, have chosen to come cherish this crown forest hidden away, literally, from prying eyes. No one questions anyone’s presence here – nor do they acknowledge it. It is a world in itself, whole – with gaming stations to liquor shops – a place where no vehicles are allowed, except for the neighing horses. If you’ve visited this place, you’d probably know I’m talking about the mighty Matheran – a hill-station we all love in our own ways. Matheran, over the years, has grown into a city in itself. Hotels and so-called cottages sprawl along the very edge of the mountains, a...