The Colorful Seasons of Shillong

Among all the vagaries of weather which tormented my existence at various periods of my life, and which made me wistfully dream of being in climes more benevolent for succour, none can be traced back to my dear old Shillong. Nay, it would be more truthful and accurate to state that the Shillong of my childhood is the place I have often dreamt of being in, whenever Mother Nature's capricious moods made life so hard to bear. It again makes me wonder how, in Shillong, the same Mother was so benign, so unobtrusive, that we lived through her varied and beautiful seasons without ever feeling any of her elements intruding upon our peace, rather our days and nights were made the more pleasant for their soothing presence. The closing of one season was as much mourned as the onset of another welcomed; the benefactions of the one no less than the other. Every season had it's own little delights to offer; own little nuances that contributed to the repository of pleasant memories to be cherished on our journeys through life, over and over again

How can we forget the cheer and merriment brought about by the onset of Spring, when amid the thrill and excitement of returning to school after the winter holidays, and getting to read new books and meeting new teachers, the natural habitats around us too were coming out of a long hibernation and were giving birth to new color and life. The bare branches and boughs of the trees, shrubs and hedges, emerging out of an arid winter, could be seen sporting fresh young colors of burgeoning leaves and flowers. The sleet had disappeared from the grass and the ferns, and the landscapes on the hills and in the valleys were glowing in a fresh, translucent green. Flowers were eager to pop their colorful heads from any place of their fancy, some in their buds, some emerging from them, adorning not just the gardens, but also could be spotted lining up roadsides, squatting amongst cobblestones, and climbing up walls and parapets. Sunflowers turned their dainty heads to the benevolent sun, and we turned our heads in admiration of theirs; and roses in pink and red and purple looked charmed by the golden sunlight. The sparrows and the magpies; the bees and butterflies wafted pleasantly in the pure, sparkling air under an azure blue sky. Memories of the sweet scents of the Shillong spring make me yearn for it again -

- Oh Shillong! To drink again the nectar of your spring,

In that vestal bliss again hear the happy birds sing,

To breathe again the fragrance of that air,

As Mother Nature laid out her delectable fare,

To see the sky break in your gushing little becks,

To watch your clouds float in little fluffy specks;

On that tender grass, again caper and run,

And watch the newborn rose blushing in the sun -

Spring would keep us so occupied with its several delights that we wouldn't notice the sky changing its character, as the deep blue space, the smiling sun and the handsome fluffy white clouds which cheered us by assuming so many different shapes and figures were slowly being crowded out by drifting masses of portentous dark and light clouds - small and large - returning to their abode from various lands and climes abroad, accumulating in the skies of Shillong. As inevitably that communion degenerated into a noisy wrangle, with deep-throated growls and roars reverberating in the air, and their echoes rolling down the hills into the tranquil valleys and glens, followed by a raging torrent of rain pounding the ground, we knew that the wet Summer was upon us.

So, out came our raincoats and gum boots, and plastic wrappings for our school bags. With all these cumbersome appendages, we plodded of mornings and afternoons the wet streets and sidewalks to and from school, perforce compelled to avoid taking shortcuts through hillsides, or playing in Hydary Park, or lounging on the slopes of Ward's lake, much to our annoyance.

Yet, summer had its own special moments of joy, like getting to float our paper boats in the full flowing drains, and exult in the delight of watching them disappear under culverts and coming steaming out the other end; going to upper Shillong to see the Elephant Falls at the height of its effusion, or nearer at hand, the Crinoline Falls in spate; staying indoors with father on evenings and getting singaras from Appayani or Aloo Pakodas from Batti Bazar; wandering out after a rainy spell and marveling at the new glitter that had come upon the grass, the trees, the hills and the streets; visiting our friends' homes in the neighborhood on the occasion of "Jhulan", and staring at the artitistically created miniature hills and valleys and houses with wonder and amazement.

Even as the monsoon drew to a close, the rain seemed to linger around, like and unloved guest, always hanging somewhere in the air, like the sword of Damocles over our exciting prospects. Yet, we could sense a gradual change happening in the air, when we realized that we dared to venture out to Police Bazar without the encumbrance of an umbrella, or could walk, rather than having to hop on to one of those groaning city buses, more often. We could also see the grassy knolls of Ward's Lake again bustling with revelers; the fairways and putting greens of Golf Link again assuming that smooth, manicured look; and the monkeys, chimpanzees, langurs, cranes, swans, storks and hornbills of Lady Hydary park once again capering or hopping under the open sky. All this, and a lightening of the skies, with the sun smiling a greater and greater part of the day, would welcome us to the peaceful world of the Shillong Autumn. I remember Autumn in Shillong as my favorite season, simply because of the immense opportunities it provided for fun and merriment -

- As the summer clouds began to scatter and fray

And the stubborn rain started to go away,

And the sun came forth to cast its light

To dispel the damp and the monsoon blight

And the birds soared up in a sky so clear,

Amid natural splendor and festive cheer,

The gentle winds of Autumn blew,

And Shillong was cloaked in a mellow hue -

The green of the pine leaves and full grown acorns start tending towards brown; the leaves of the plum and orange and nashpati trees tended towards yellow while the plump fruits ensconced in these leaves attained the pink of their health. The minds of school goers tended towards their final exams, even as the gentle warmth in the air was transforming into a perceptible chill. Mother nature beckoned us to its beautiful hideouts to partake of it's delicious wares: which occasioned the memorable picnics we had in some of her most paradisaical bowers - the quiet groves on the banks of the clear brooks in Umtingar; the sylvan, grave and whispering woods of the abandoned palace in Upper Shillong (called the "haunted house"); the virgin glades and glens of Umiam - and which now come back to haunt me with the same old sensations of euphoria again rushing in my heart. The excitement of Autumn would be further heightened by our daily stealthy excursions into the fruit gardens of our neighbors, throwing umpteen stones to get some of those ruddy plums down; devising all sorts of projectiles to disgorge that stubborn succulent nashpati from its parent; climbing precariously on to some gabled roof to get at that nice and green orange, which watered our mouths even as we thought about the tangy pulp in it; reaching out for that juiciest blackberry in the thorniest thicket and getting the full worth of the scratches acquired when that delicious little thing melted in the mouth.

Towards mid-autumn, Durga Puja would overflow our already brimming cups of joy, with the shopping sprees for bell bottoms and new shirts and shoes; and flaunting our new apparel to our friends from Bisnupur every day, sitting in Laban Namghar from morning till evening. Before bidding us adieu however, this wonderful season would culminate in the heady excitement of the Diwali days, when our eyes lit up like sparklers as we shopped for firecrackers; the Diwali evenings, which would start with the best singaras and rasgullas from Delhi Mistan Bhandar, followed by a breathless revelry with crackers, rockets, fountains, sparklers etc through to the late hours of the evening; Diwali nights, when father took us for jaunts in Police Bazar, where the brilliantly decked up shops and restaurants and cinema halls enchanted us beyond description.

Meanwhile, even as the joys of Autumn were nearing their end, we would be engrossed in preparations for our annual examinations looming ominously ahead of us. Yet, even in the fervor of studies, we were secretly and delightfully conscious of the "Manja" operation being performed on kite strings in the various backyards of our neighborhood, and the joyous prospects of the Winter ahead. So, as the clear blue Shillong sky exploded in the colorful animation of soaring kites, in their many shapes, sizes and colors, winter holidays and winter itself were upon us. From morning till twilight, when the numbing winter chill was yet on the ascendancy, our hearts and minds would be occupied by that precious contraption of colored paper and bamboo strips (kamani), called "guddi" or "sila" or simply, kite. "Longkots" (stones tied to ends of long string) would fly out of nowhere to bring down a low flying kite. We would scramble over shrubbery, swamps, hedges, drains, hills and craters to chase down a falling kite; get hold of any paper, any bamboo fillet, any gum (if no gum, then boiled rice) to put a kite together and see it fly into the sky, taking our hearts with it.

As the winter progressed, mornings would get harder to wake up to; water would be hanging like stalactites from taps, and thick sheets of ice would meet any hand or mug that seeks water in buckets and drums; grass and leaves would be white with sleet until the sun wakes up to make sparkling dew. Nevertheless, as every Shillong season would allow us, we eked out opportunities of merriment even in the most frigid of winters. We derived utmost pleasure in hunting the markets for the most fashionable jacket, and the utmost satisfaction in showing it off. Mother made us the most handsome sweaters, with designs of flowers woven tastefully in them (I remember her continuously at it with her knitting needles, while sitting, talking or reading, all through summer and autumn). It was also a happy errand to get the coal scuttles ready and wait for the "mama" who would come along with the conical baskets full of coal slung from his head and crying out "aaa...koila!"; or rush to the "koila dukan" in Batti Bazar to get some shining fresh coals for the grate ("choola"); sit around the brightly burning grate, warming our hands of evenings, mornings and sometimes even at noontime on extremely bleak days. Weekend jaunts to Golf Link, and having the "garam chana" from the chanawala while sitting on its slopes; to Police Bazar and Delhi Mistan Bhandar; and to Anjalee or Dreamland to enjoy Rajesh Khanna or Amitabh's heroics in the warm comfort of the Balcony seats were further enhanced by the wintry chill of Shillong.

The coming of winter also meant the coming of Christmas, when we would go roaming on the festive streets, feasting our eyes on the brightly lit and artfully bedecked churches, homes and shops; waiting in great expectation of the evening of 31st December, when father would appear at the door with a beautifully garnished cake for the new year; waking up before dawn with father to light the "maizee" - carefully prepared the night before - and roast sweet potatoes in that fire on the occasion of Magh Bihu and Sankranti.

In Shillong, as I remember it, seasons were no mere seasons. They were seasons of pleasure. As the seasons changed, the nature of our pleasures changed, yet their intensity remained undiminished. How I miss that perpetual state of happiness today!