Just Like That | Autumn is here, and so is the time for celebration

I urge you, in the early mornings, and at dusk, to feel the coming of autumn, and the subtle but unmissable season of interregnum between monsoons and winter

With the monsoon rains finally appearing to end, the weather has taken a turn. The skies are largely clear, the mornings and evenings are cooler and less humid, and there is the anticipation of the festive season beginning, first with the Navratras, then Dussehra, and finally, Diwali. In short, Delhi, and much of the north of India, is on the threshold of the short autumnal interregnum, and winter is around the corner.

This brief autumn is a time for celebration and a sense of well-being(Pixabay)

This brief autumn is a time for celebration and a sense of well-being. Seasons in our tradition are also paired with certain bhavas or moods. The most obvious example of this is the feelings evoked by the first drops of the monsoon on the parched earth after summer’s scorching heat. This kindles a mood of romance, and if the beloved is away, of the pangs of separation. Raag Malhar, in all its facets, represents these feelings best. Much of our sringara or love poetry is also based on the emotions of this seasonal period.

Similarly, autumn is the occasion of the great Raas of Shri Krishna. His flute rings out most clearly and compellingly with the onset of autumn when the monsoon has spent itself, the landscape is green and lush, jasmine and coral flowers and water lilies are in bloom, and the night is clear and full of stars. Ancient texts, the Harimvasha (circa 4th century CE), the Vishnu Purana (circa 5th century CE), and the Bhagwata Purana (10th century CE), categorically link Krishna’s love play with the coming of autumn. This is the time when with the cows fully nourished on the verdant post-monsoon grass, and the crop ready for harvest, the pursuit of artha or material well-being has borne fruit. With the arrogance of Indra, the god of the thunderbolt, humbled, dharma has got its due. All the constituents are in place. Humankind and nature are open to the seduction of Kamadeva as never before.

In the Harivamsha, Krishna himself lyrically describes the beauty of autumn and brings out vividly why his flute could now succeed so eminently in overwhelming the shores of restraint around the brimful pool of desire. In this season, he says, the forest is thick with foliage and fruits. Flowers—the red bandhujiva, the yellow asama and the purple kovidava—are in bloom. The skies are clear, the breeze is calm, and the earth is washed and clean. Rivers no longer in spate flow placidly, their gurgle akin to a woman’s laughter. Flowering vines decorate the banks of the Yamuna.

In short, Krishna’s raas with the gopis, in which his grace, his madhurya or sweetness, and the irresistible melody of his flute, combine with the resplendence of nature, happens in the brief autumnal spell after the rains, and before winter sets in. At this time, the combination of several elements is entirely in keeping with the principles of Indian aesthetics. For joy to be a total experience, several elements have to blend in just the right way at the right time. When that moment arrives, melding hearing, feeling, seeing and smelling, assisted by the mind together with the soul, then alone is it possible to capture that elusive mood, the very rasa, the very taste, the essence, the hidden flavour or the joyful moment. In the moment of rasa, the gopis become jivatmas (individual souls) seeking a merger with the paramatma (the Absolute), bridging the sacred and the profane. Autumn provides a splendid backdrop to this remarkable phenomenon.

Of course, this happens only rarely, not because autumn is rare, but because the rasiks, the seekers of this experience, are becoming rarer. Seasons come and go and we never take time to notice them, pause, watch, breathe deeply, internalize what is changing, and live in the moment. Caught up in our daily, and mostly futile never ceasing concerns, we miss the great cosmic play of nature.

True, in a country as vast as India, there are often good reasons for these missed opportunities. Sometimes, the monsoons wreak so much havoc that even when the rains have stopped, overflowing rivers continue their tandava of destruction. Even as I write this, large parts of the country are flooded, and thousands of people are marooned. I was in Patna, Bihar, recently, and the northern part of the state is reeling under floods, which have destroyed crops and property, and left people without shelter, food and even a regular supply of water.

But for those not so afflicted, I urge you, in the early mornings, and at dusk, to feel the coming of autumn, and the subtle but unmissable season of interregnum between the monsoons and winter. Perhaps, then, you too will feel the desire to dance with Krishna.

Pavan K Varma is author, diplomat, and former Member of Parliament (Rajya Sabha). Just Like That is a weekly column where Varma shares nuggets from the world of history, culture, literature, and personal reminiscences. The views expressed are personal