Spring Comes to Udaipur

Spring has arrived in northern India and along with it a measure of relief at the discovery that the changing of seasons here is not merely accompanied by a change in temperature—it may be observed in other transformations as well. Winter had seemed nothing more than a cooler continuation of the post-monsoon autumn; granted the days were shorter (though thankfully not so short as I am accustomed), and a stubborn haze descended upon the city, but the sky was as cloudless and nearly colorless as ever, the sunlight seemed just as direct, if not as intense as it had when I arrived, and the city’s flora surrendered its verdure so deliberately that any change in its hue was scarcely perceptible. Now the coming of fervid spring has had a curious double effect on the plants of the city: some—the bougainvillea and its bushy and creeping brethren, marigolds, roses, and other perennial flowers—bloom riotously, as if in a hothouse; others, primarily trees, betray the pains of an unrelieved thirst. In the past month, the two silver oaks bordering my squarish courtyard, always untidy, have discharged their frond-like leaves onto its surface with a redoubled intensity. The leaves’ former mossy greenness has been subsumed by a sere brown; they crackle underfoot like a gravelly rasp.

The same divergent fortunes can be traced in the flora of the countryside. The hills have never been so ugly in the candid light of mid-day as they are now—even those not entirely denuded seem brown and barren and wretched. The effects of irrigation are manifestly obvious: where green greets the eye water has been channeled. No other living thing, in such impoverished circumstances, can hope to put on such signs of health. The lone exception is a native tree sparely distributed among the hills; its deeply orange blossoms seem unnatural, like the icing confections of a cake decorator. From a distance the trees are beacons, their blossoms fiery heralds of softer springs, lovelier worlds than this.

It is not only the plants that awaken, either; spring in India means rebirth and reawakening for certain segments of the animal kingdom as well. Insects suddenly pullulate: mosquitoes haunt my evenings and flies my morning walk to work; ants march; and a swarm of bees closed the balcony on the third floor of Seva Mandir’s library for days. Bird calls, never silenced, seem more spirited, more resounding. Puppies abound, presenting poignant miniatures of their mongrel parentage (but, alas, a less heartwarming sight when one contemplates their certain fate). The bulls, as if agitated by the heat, are quicker to lock horns and the bristle-backed pigs less active by day, likely for the same reason. A form scuttling along the wall in the kitchen one night proved not a mouse, as I had feared, but an unblinking gecko, returned to life from months of secretive slumber.

The light of the sun has altered too; it is whiter, purer, and, like a newlywed spouse, more honest and less forgiving. The world is better illuminated by degrees; the light, though, is not yet hard and cruel, only brilliant and vaguely unreal, almost otherworldly. Strangely, clouds have begun to appear in the afternoons, shading the world from the sun. Sunday night I heard thunder for the first time since arriving; Monday afternoon the world became gray, and the thunder returned. Lightning flashed in the distance, and a strong wind bent the trees and bushes, scattering the vibrant blossoms of the bougainvillea. A little rain fell. As I walked home, the road seemed newly made—I couldn’t remember when I had last seen pavement glazed by rainwater.

The small storm seemed a revelation, although of what sort, precisely, was not clear. In the India I have known, clouds never worry the face of the sun, and the air is eternally limpid and breathless; rain never keeps down the dust in the street. In such a world, the rumble and flash of a thunder storm assume a primal gravity; they brim with mystery and meaning. Only I fear I’m insufficiently attuned to tease out that meaning: I must be content with the knowledge that the world has indeed changed, as it is wont to this time of year, even in these latitudes. Perhaps the bland and featureless days of sunny calm have truly gone elsewhere, at least for the time being, and if so, I am glad for it. Even if this is as no spring I’ve known before—I’ve held no vigil for the purple-headed crocus or the first robin, harbored no expectation of tulip blooms and cherry blossoms, mourned the passing rites of March Madness and Opening Day, unobserved—the season remains a profound symbol of growth and rebirth. Even the sun can become a weighty emblem of death when it shines so long without opposition.