By Ramesh K Dhiman : The very mention of the spring season conjures up vivid images of the captivating colors and contours of the season synonymous with love and longing. Amongst all seasons of the year, spring season is the one which is bereft of the scorching heat of summers, the chilly winds of winters and the wrath of the rain gods mauling us mortal souls and, to top it all, the dread of dull and drab autumn playing spoil sport in a sense. I relapse into a reverie as vignettes of spring season appear prancing on my mindscape as I trek down the memory lane for a while.
During the childhood days of yore, spring season would always usher in surprises and more surprises for us teeny-weeny buddies in a sense. We all village urchins would extend a rousing welcome to the season of music and muse, by crooning ‘Pahari’ ditties and others songs of joy as we would make much fun and frolic. The terraced fields laden with undulating mustard flowers lending luminosity and heavenly glow to the rolling hills and dales of dotting the captivating Kangra valley would offer a virtual visual treat. We would eagerly look up for multi-hued birds of different feathers singing sweet nothings perched precariously on the tree tops.
I vividly recall with a tinge of nostalgia how the magical tints of rose spreading soothing fragrance and other flowers in stunning bright hues, yellow, white, purple, and rustle-red, royal blue, pink, et al, would offer a fusion of fascinating colours – courtesy – the bounty and ethereal beauty of the season of spring. The blooming flowers of all hues would dazzle even more under the haze of the rising and setting sun, far behind the silhouettes of the barren hills. The wayward butterflies would flit and fly in gay abandon as they would sap honey from the tender buds. We would be on the seventh heaven of joy as we would see the dancing peacock amid the company of his lady-love on the spur of a hillock to extend welcome to the setting season of spring, while the hovering dark clouds would thunder relentlessly to make their presence felt.
Spring season for us tot felt like any other brisk day, unlike a day of other seasons for many reasons than one. My domineering granny, now dwells in the heaven, would make sure that our hand-spun ‘khadi’ clothes were dyed sunset-yellow or saffron, in the run up to get set for the grandiose. For us, the day would be a date with rich fare of rice pudding or simple rice, richly done in ‘desi ghee’ (Clarified butter) and permitted yellow colour, seasoned with almonds, raisins and cashew nuts, that we would relish to our hearts’ fill. We would dance to the peppy beats of the ‘Dhol’ till midnightafter offering obeisance to Maa Saraswati, the goddess of wisdom and art. Granny would narrate inspiring stories linked to the celebrations surrounding the festival of Basant Panchami, which is celebrated on the 5thday of bright fortnight of the lunar month of Magha, every year. In some other parts of the country, the day is celebrated as the Festival of Kite, such as Punjab and Bihar, while in the West Bengal, well-sculpted images of Goddess Saraswati are immersed in the holy waters of the Ganges, following the prayers offered by people to appease the goddess.
Times have changed and so have the modes and ‘mizaz’ of the celebrations that were conspicuous by huge footfalls. Old timers would recall how they went bonkers over their festivals, including Divali, Dussehra, Lohri, Holi, Raksha-bandhan, et al, which were the warp-n-woof of our social fabric and composite cultural heritage. Friends and foes, kin and acquaintances and so on and so forth found these strings of festive occasion to meet and greet each other and iron out differences and forge new grounds for friendship, bonhomie and brotherhood. In today’s fast-paced world, we have our jobs cut-out within a time frame. We all are running against time and tide to achieve our goals, terming such celebrations as plain perfunctory rituals at all. We seem to be hard-pressed for time to hail the spring season!