A FEAST OF COLOURS

I do not know what is it about this time of the year that makes me unaccountably happy. With the winter chill receding and the blazing summer sun a distant nightmare, the balmy weather uplifts my spirits as nothing else can. There is spring in the air and a spring in my step. The song on my lips takes a cue from the song of birds, though it pales in comparison to the lilting music they make. Nature smiles her brightest smile making me respond with a similar one. This is a season for rejuvenation, for letting go of the old and bringing in the new, as symbolized, by crisp brown leaves covering the ground, even as the trees are covered with fresh green. Autumn and spring go hand and hand in the month of March for, the modesty of Indian trees, as with Indian women do not allow them to remain bare bodied for a single day.

Parks and roundabouts abound in a myriad multi-hued flowers bobbing in the breeze. They coyly beckon bees and butterflies that flit from flower to flower, drunk on nectar.

Neem and Jamun, gulmohar and laburnum, trees lining Delhi roads are clothed in new attire. In this green monotone, every now and then, there appears a dazzling splash of colour – the silk cotton trees in majestic bloom. This is the one tree, which I feel, symbolizes the splendor of spring. Despite being there for years, every spring, they spring a fresh surprise. There is a particular road in my vicinity that is lined with trees covered with drab dusty, leaves all the year round and then, suddenly as if by magic, one fine day they burst into colour. Rows upon rows of red/orange crowns make a splendid sight against a pale blue sky. Every branch is covered with flowers with not a leaf in sight. Despite the fact that these big flowers have no smell and feel waxy to touch, I always stop my car to pick up a few that have fallen on the ground and put them on the dashboard to brighten my day. It is as if by this gesture, I carry with me a cup of joy that Nature so generously spills in spring.

If flora and fauna are so colourfully affected by the change of season, can humans be far behind. Rid of their sweaters children run berserk shouting with glee. Holi, the festival of colours, begins days in advance for them. Amidst a conglomeration of cousins, they squirt coloured water on each other, squealing with delight. Even dogs are not spared; the white coat of the pet Pomeranian is coloured magenta, as he too frolics, carried away by the joy of his little master. The joy of plunging one’s hands on mounds of colour powder and rubbing it on one and all, of dirtying one’s face, hands, hair and miraculously not being scolded for it, is beyond compare. Finally, tired and hungry they gorge on delicious gujjiyas and other delicacies. These exuberant experiences condense to form memories that they will cherish for their rest of their lives.

As for the adults, drunk on bhang, they indulge in joyful banter and flirtatious behavior taking advantage of the license of the day. They dance in wild abandon to the beat of dholaks, white teeth flashing through multi-coloured, unrecognisable faces, their white clothes, now an unrecognizable hue. Except for a few finicky people who look upon it with disdain, Holi, the festival of spring, of harvest and plenty, fills our lives with colour, as Nature fills our world with it.