Around this time of the year when the days become shorter and the nights gradually spread their wings to catch our dreams, when the noonday haze declares the mellow fruitfulness, when autumn seemingly prepares to go away and winter is yet to arrive, we bengalis call the season as ‘ Hemanta’ (হেমন্ত), a season which is not particularly vivacious and youthful as spring, nor abundant and flowery as winter ( in this part of the world).
Hemanta never competed with his grander brothers or sisters of the seasons. He has always remained subdued, mild and temperate and yet in his softest manifestations, he forgets not to show the world how he holds his own beauty, not perhaps as accentuated as that of spring or as capricious as that of autumn, yet, a sweet, mellifluous kind of beauty which can only be discerned by some one keen.
Hemanta is a season of love, a love which makes you sit under a sprawling tree and listen to songs of birds and bees, a soothing kind of love which takes you to a sojourn perhaps, brief yet invigorating.
Melange 