Springtime symphony and sweet childhood fantasy of romance

Its homecoming in springtime after a good 11 years. And boy! Did I miss this time of the year all these years away from home? You bet I did. Though strangely, I always took it for granted when I had been at home years ago.

My earliest memories of springtime in Assam dates back to our childhood days to a season which was just perfect-the days and nights were rendered equal and it would be neither too cold nor too warm ... the weather would be fresh and clear, warm and sunny yet had the first few showers of the year for the dry leafless trees to bud out new green foliage slowly making them blossom into a variety of colorful blooms in red, pink and yellow... the cunning cuckoo birds cooing their way to the crows' nests to lay their eggs... the brain-fever birds would whistle bou koka kote (mom where's dad?) constantly, till one starts whistling with them without even knowing it... while the exotic orchids and other sweet smelling flowers of spring would bloom their best, the fragrant breeze transforming the environment into an earthly paradise...

I remember the times when we would visit both my parents native places in upper Assam during springtime. Around mid-April, with the first day of Bohag starting the Assamese new year, the Bohag Bihu or Rongali Bihu would usher in a period of great fun, merriment and colours, marking the arrival of the spring season. Young girls would colour their palms and feet with saffron pigments of freshly ground jetuka (henna leaves)... women folk would prepare assamese delicacies and snacks like pitha (dry rice cakes stuffed with sweetened coconut or sesame seeds) and laaroos (sweetened sesame or coconut balls) in every household, some women in the villages even weaving homemade bihuwans (white cotton veils with red floral patterns) to be presented to their near and dear ones as a gift expressing love and respect. During those bihu days, everyone would adorn new traditional attires like dhoti, saador-mekhela, present bihuwans to elders and loved ones, invite each other for feasts, functions and fairs organized at several places, setting a mood of festivity and gaiety all throughout Assam. The whole atmosphere would inspire unbounded joy and enthusiasm expressed through dances, songs, and other festivities. Hundreds of young unmarried men and women in the village would be seen moving about in groups, gaily dressed to perform Bihu dance. Pretty young girls would dance brisk and sensuously moving their hips, arms and the upper parts of their bodies to the rhythm of the wild beats of dhol (hollow musical drums) and to the lusty tunes of pépa (buffalo hornpipes) and gogona (another musical instrument made of bamboo), all of these played by the handsome young men. Young couples in love would sing and dance to songs woven around themes of romance expressing love for their sweethearts, whole day long, sometimes late into the night in open fields, roadsides, on specially constructed stages or performing from house to house. The young lissome girls would dress in their best traditional muga mekhela saador (a two-piece skirt-and-shawl set, woven out of golden silk fibers with red floral patterns) and red blouses, kopou phul (a beautiful white and purple colored long orchid) adorning their jet-black hair tied in neat buns and jetuka-tinted palms. The men would wear white cotton dhotis and muga (golden silk) kurtas and tie bihuwans around their heads and waists.

Every year my sister and I would gleefully listen to the romantic escapades of at least 1 young couple in the vicinity of our grandparents' neighbourhood, who would elope and get married during this time of the year... as if it was almost like a tradition that had to be followed with each passing year. And being the hard-core romantic I am, I would think to myself that one day when I grow up, I would fall in love and get married only at this time of the year, my lover carrying me in his arms into a sunset of a happily ever after future together.

Alas! Our childhood dreams and wishes doesn't always come true. My husband is neither from Assam, nor did we get married in Spring. And knowing him, I can tell, he might find all of this stupid, ridiculous and far from anything that is his idea of romance. But the fact remains that in the evenings when I go up to our terrace after sunset to feel the cool spring breeze caress my face, to let the cacophony of the songs of the various migratory birds deafen my ears to all the other sounds of civilization and to fill my nostrils and lungs with the unpolluted air mixed with the fragrance of the many spring flowers, my childhood fantasy flashes back in my mind. And it brings a smile on my lips, a sparkle in my eyes and a spring in my steps. Skipping a beat in a heart, I think of my husband who is far far away, buried in his books nose-deep at the moment...