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Vasant has come
Vasantgaliki Valape rega … breeze of spring evoking a longing for the beloved…. Wow! vasantam vachhesindi—spring has arrived! There is a certain something about Vasant: its mornings are different. There the chirping birds welcoming the Sun as he rises from the bowl of darkness on the eastern horizon. Joining them are the peepul’s giggling leaves— leaves that have just sprouted … fluttering like the wings of parrots in the morning breeze…. April mornings are wholesome and serene. The sky looks clear and pure blue. It is surreal beauty at its splendor. Vasant gali—cool breeze blowing in circles from the south laden with the mist through the fluttering and dancing young lush green mango leaves, incensed by the wandering kuhoo kuhoo songs of koel in the Hindola raga … the humming of bees that drank the honey from vaasantika flowers to their fullest content … the innumerable beauties of the Vasant sway the mankind, clears the cobwebs of yesterdays, and makes one’s mind so sharp and clear that snatches of poetry memorized in childhood come flooding. It simply plants “conical trees / of new hopes and aspirations” in even the bleeding hearts of people…. Vasantagali … blowing through the unkempt hair of the young … it— the air that blew over the jasmine flowers—juggles mischievous new
ideas in their minds. Indeed, April is the month of youth: having been freed from the grind of classes, lessons, teachers, homework, examinations, and having thrown the books onto the attic, children are at their boisterous best in their restless search for fun and frolicking. They crave for outings to dance in wild glee—to run amok in gay
In droves, run into mango orchards … one group, encircling the mali, the watchman, cleverly engages him in innocent conversations … having side-tracked his attention, some from the other group throw stones at mango trees … climb the trees … stealthily pluck the raw mangoes … run to bamboo bushes, hiding behind them … cut the mangoes, season them with salt and green pepper … enjoy the bite with the fellow brat … enjoy the whole game to its hilt. At the multitude of colors of the Vasant, no wonder even if the grownups suddenly turn young, are reminded of their youth … slip into nostalgia … and even join koels humming their old favorites … ninna leni andamedo thongichuche nenduko … “the beauty that was not there yesterday has peeped in today for reason unknown … where were all these beauties all these days?
Sweet memories … or one’s imagined life may sprout jinglingly, suddenly might take wings … might run ecstatically in the wilderness, enjoying the multitude of colors of nature at its best … might fly “on the viewless wings of poesy”—to Elysium.… Might long to drive out of the garish and obtuse cities … deep into the country from the mundane routine to the sylvan serenity … from the twanging keyboards to chirping birds … from cacophony to symphony of birds down the woods … to watch moonlight when it sleeps upon the motionless trees, watch it when its rays spreading on red lilies in ponds turn their fragrant water bright red … might feel like listening to the music of night’s stillness and ‘become the touches of harmony’ … or to sit with the beloved … “very gently, cheek to cheek … chattering inconsequentially … each arm engaged in a tight embrace”—the night coming to an end without being one aware of … two dissolving into one … or dangling legs in the cool waters, quietly whispering into the beloved’s ears: “You are my life … you are the moonlight of my eyes, you are the ambrosia to my body” … rejoice in the moonlit nights … delight like nature in its profusion, in the mere abundance of Vasant….