Without either the heat of summer or the cold of winter, autumn is the most benign part of the year. It is a time of muses, musings and poetry
We are in the midst of autumn which, in the much-quoted words of John Keats, is a “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,/Season of Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun;/Conspiring with him how to load and bless/With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run..”. It is not just fruits and mists. It is a time when the climate is benign, lacking the heat of summer and the chill of winter. Called ‘fall’ in the United States because it is the time when leaves fall from trees, it has inspired a number of poets and writers. Wrote Albert Camus in Autumn, “Autumn is a second spring when every leaf is a flower.”
Wrote Rainer Maria Rilke in letters on Cezanne, “At no other time (than autumn) does the earth let itself be inhaled in one smell, the ripe earth; in a smell that is in no way inferior to the smell of the sea, bitter where it borders on taste, and more honeysweet where you feel it touching the first sounds. Containing depth within itself, darkness, something of the grave almost.” leo Tolstoy wrote in a letter, “Just as a painter needs light in order to put the finishing touches to his picture, so I need an inner light, which I feel I never have enough of in the autumn.” And Robert Browning, “Days decrease,/And autumn grows, autumn in everything.”
Clearly, a number of poets and writers, as, indeed, a very large number of men and women in the northern hemisphere regard autumn, taken to be the period between autumnal equinox when days and nights are of equal length (September 22 or 23) and winter solstice (December 21or 22), the year's shortest day, as the most benign part of the year, without either the heat of summer or the cold of winter. It is a time for walks in the park or hikes in the mountain. It is a time when festivals in the open do not tax one's endurance or ability to withstand the challenges of the weather. In many countries it is the time for harvesting crops.
If autumn is the favourite of most worshippers of the muse, winter is the season of discontent. To quote the bard of Avon from Richard III, “Now is the winter of our discontent/ Made glorious summer by the sun of York/ and all the clouds that lour'd upon our house/ In the deep bosom of the ocean buried.”
Of course, it all depends. Winter in the northern parts of Europe, Asia, the United States and Canada, is harsh, clogged by snow and swept by razor-edged winds. It is different in much of the south where, it is the only part of the year which provides relief from the clammy heat of summer and monsoon downpours that flood roads, cause old houses to collapse and bring life to a standstill.
Often, there is a difference within the same country. Thus, January is harsh in Delhi or Chandigarh, but mild and pleasant in Mumbai or Chennai. Also, much depends on how one reacts. Some shiver and feel as if their marrows were freezing, others find winter bracing and an ideal time for life outdoors.
In countries like India, the monsoon, counted as a season, has featured in poetry throughout the ages. In Kalidasa's long lyrical poem, Meghaduta (literally Cloud Messenger), a lovelorn Yakshya — nature spirit which is usually benevolent — exiled for a year to Chitrakoota in Central India by his master, Kubera (god of wealth) for neglecting is duty, pines for his wife left behind in Alaka in the Himalaya mountain. In Ashada, the first month of monsoon, he asks a passing cloud to carry his message of love to her.
In Barshamangal, Tagore welcomed the monsoon thus, “There she comes in terrible joy/Drenched in water, filling the earth with fragrance/Barsha in her early youthfulness and dense glory/cloud-blue and moist.” Of course, he hailed the autumn too, writing in Sarada (Autumnal), “Autumn, your offering of bright sunlight/ Spreads beyond your enchanting fingers./ Autumn, in your dew-washed hair/ In the border of you sari spread on the forest path/ Morning's heart begins to pulsate.” (Both quotations hev been translated by this writer from the original Bengali). But then, Tagore's poetry transcended seasons and time.
(The writer is Consultant Editor, The Pioneer, and an author)