Sahyadrica

The clouds lie still among the hills. As if placed there. Not by the monsoon winds that never stop in their path – these seem to be held there intentionally by the trees. We were looking up at the hill from an opening in the woods. The essence of evergreen forests of the Ghats during monsoon is enthralling. The sheathed hills grow ever more mystical. I told my friend – my silly imagination taking over – of how I wished to see King Kong come bustling down the hill, or at least see trees swaying briskly by some giant’s movements. Trampling in the great undergrowth abound with leeches, we ducked whenever the sinuous arms of giant lianas straddled across our paths, hopped over rain-soaked logs, and skipped over polished boulders in gushing streams. The forest was dense and damp. Not a bird sang. Only a few yards in I noticed the forest path riddled with footwears, from sports and soccer shoes to chappals and heeled sandals. A curious thing to find in the forests. As we ventured de...

When the summer is at its peak, the trees of central India burst into a green flame – it is a calm flame – soothing on the eyes, cooling to the body, kind to the soul. It is a flame of life that sparks like fire – literally and figuratively – and lingers on. Every new leaf looks peculiar. The leaves of Sal are a waxen green, of Harra a silvery velvet, of Mahua are particularly interesting – some are lush green with a down of golden hairs, some are a red of a dying flame; of mango are a dark maroon, and those of Kusum the brightest crimson – and they all, in a matter of few weeks, turn to a play of light and dark shades of green. It is still the hottest part of summer when everything is still or buzzing shyly in the shade. A lady passes through the barren field on the edge of the Sal forests one summer evening. The tigers make their hunt; the stags don a bouquet of leaves. But life seems to be in a diapause. As the season ages, especially towards the beginning of June, some ...

Such fairness have I ever seen, On tender stilts and blades like steel Of greens and yellows, of red-tipped reeds Standing boldly in rain, gently swaying in breeze. What name do they call you, Whose song do you sing, Do you speak of the aging seasons, Have you a message in your wisps woven? “ They call me Kaans, or Kansh, and Kasha I sing of the clouds that retreat beyond And I speak of the sun, glaring over the plains And I rise to bid farewell to the last shimmer of rains .” Kaans - Saccharum spontaneum Kaans ( Saccharum spontaneum ) is probably the most beautiful grass of central India. One can see fields of their fair-spikelet swaying in the cool monsoon breeze in meadows and paddy fields, as if someone planted them there to adorn the green monochromes of rice. The flower-heads of Kaans fly through the air as the season ages, dispersing seeds and claiming new territories Their blooming is said to indicate that the end of monsoon is near. B...

There is something within me that is a desert, a dying plain of cracked mud, an empty cup that forever thirsts for another sip of rain.                                                                 – Stephanie Rachel Seely , An Ode to Rain Kalidasa would not have chosen this year to write Meghdoot . The famed southwest monsoon of the Indian subcontinent is at its five year lowest as of June. A strong El Niño is being blamed for such an anomaly, holding back the most beloved weather of the world from us just like it did in 2009. If anyone had asked you about India’s monsoon of the previous year, you may have responded with a satisfactory smile. It was beautiful. The rivers were flowing to the brim and the agricultural production was far better. I’m not sure what the government figures tell, but the farmers of Maha...

You and we were the first to conquer You and we shall be the last —  The Bane of the Black Sword The possibility of seeing Crinum blooming in the first week of monsoon is higher than that during the second, and the following, and the next, until you’re left standing on a bed of broad, lush-green leaves like ripples on the land. Crinum latifolium When it rains, Crinum flowers will tower above the mass of leaves, on a pillar of pale green glowing under an overcast sky. You will see them drooping – not in weakness, nor in sadness – but in respect to the rains for which it is celebrating in delight, and for the land that has sustained it for countless generations, and for the chance for being one of the most beautiful creation of the union of the elements of water and earth. If only man could understand that he, like Crinum, is the son and the daughter of the basic elements of the universe, would he also stand not with pride but due honor to Earth? Crinum latifolium ...

There is more to life than just yourself, your own family, or your own kind – Lawrence Anthony My date with monsoon was as unexpected as the date of its arrival. I think, if it were not for our reliance on monsoon, it shouldn’t be predicted at all. So this year I stayed away from the news flashing its arrival, although I sneaked some information from discussions with, literally, everyone I met. And just as unpredicted was the place where we’d meet – on a Friday evening on the way home from work. If anyone saw me smiling they had no idea if it was for the last day of the week, or for getting my shoes wet in the first monsoon showers of the year. After all the days spent waiting desperately for the rains to arrive, the monsoon sure does surprise everyone with its pre-monsoonal heavy downpour. People forget the scorching heat of the summer, and get a new reason to complain about wet clothes and muddy roads. Although greeting monsoon in the city was unexpectedly pleasant for me, I wo...