The summers have still not left the Indian continent. We have monsoon rains in summer. Now the monsoon winds have retreated back to the Indian Ocean. Air is hot and dry, very uncomfortably dry on this Deccan plateau. The moist air has given it up to crisp sunny atmosphere.
But the mornings and evenings are cool and take away the tiring heat of the day. And the winter is just around the corner. It knocks our doors at night, bringing in chilled night winds.
This is known bad weather of the year as long as the city life is concerned. But there out on hills is all season of farewell party. The annual visitors of monsoon are taking leave with last of their bright and colorful flowers. Now they will see each other in next monsoon. Till then have colorful dreams in your hibernation palace under the soft earth cover!
The winters would turn the green velvets of hillsides into rich golden blonds. Here on the deccan plateau we do not have one season of fall for the trees to shed their leaves. Every kind of tree undergoes a makeover on its own preset time. So the forests are never un’green! If one species is shedding, the other is in full lush green attire.
And yes each one has a different green of its own, a different orange and a different yellow…..
It’s beautiful to roam out on hills on crisp sunny winter afternoons. They are silent except for the soft breath of wind through the silk of golden cladding on the hills.
As you gaze down to a village on the hillside, all that you notice is that the hill slope has changed its robes. Now it wears a funny outfit of checkers and patches of fields with neat rows of rice plantation. It is a pleasant site.
The crop is about to reaped. And then would be the time for celebration in the old farmer’s house by the rice field. It would be by the time of Diwali that he would have reaped money and food for the rest of the year.
Right now he must be looking out to the fields with his head level and proud. This is his creation, his effort that has brought this golden treasure to his doorstep.
If the market gives him a hand, this golden treasure can really mean worth gold to him. But the men at the market have never been out on the fields to see this precious site. They would give him few hundreds of rupees in return of the gold he would sell them…. And the men at the market would go back to their cities and throw a lecture on poverty in India…. Unaware of the gold the poor India has spilled over their worthless heads. God bless us… the city men….