# The Rakhi of Spring

When you look toward the sky and the wind, winter's ashen shroud is no longer visible. The dense veil of mist that had held back all our longing for so long has lifted today. Nature, as if waking from sleep, has adorned itself anew, and life's tempo has quickened from one to two. In the river's breast, the water trembles with the ecstasy of breaking free; in the cascade's flow, life sings its sweet refrain; in every tree, fresh leaves whisper their gentle conversation. In the birds' songs dwells spring's dream and hope, and through it all, as if the silent hush of twilight gives way, arrives the pure and golden dawn. That lustrous verdure which winter's fierce blow had buried beneath frost's shroud—today in Phalguna it spreads forth in countless streams across the land. The weary gaze of the grey sky is veiled by the delicate arrangement of rose petals; in forest after forest, green wears new hues, new music. Along the roadside the wild flowers dance in their abandon, and around them the sunlight of the sun lies trapped in the grass's snare.

The lingering sweetness and grace of the recently concluded Saraswati Puja still stands out clearly among the young men and women; in the enchanting fragrance of the offerings, the mind and spirit seem utterly flooded. The mango's new buds hold their heads high beside the tender shoots, their fragrant welcome-speech seems to sound the drums of joy through every moment of Phalguna. In response, flowers in the garden whisper to one another, and in color, fragrance, rhythm, and song, the celebration of spring grows ever more vivid and resplendent.

The end of autumn and the beginning of spring are like two sisters born from the same mother's womb. In the sky's form, in the trees' adornment, in nature's palette—everywhere there reigns a delightful similitude. As autumn's curtain falls, spring's inaugural dream glimmers forth. Spring only comes and goes in our lives and in nature. The scattering of colored powder, the intoxicated call of the flute, the blossoming of the asoka—none of these endure for long. Perhaps this is why the people of this land show such keen enthusiasm for spring. When beauty's duration is brief, it must be savored with all one's heart before it fades away. This urgency of joy seems rightfully earned in the eyes. Yet from its midst, nothing much emerges... The old wounds, weariness, the long helplessness—the eternal cycle of seeing one's face in a broken mirror begins again, swiftly enough.

The unfolding of the human heart and the blossoming of fruit buds both find their occasion's beginning in spring. Therein lies Phalguna's completeness, and in that the invocation of the infinite, the dissolution of stagnation. Considered from this perspective, fleeting spring is a sure and hidden chamber of prayer brimming with endless possibility. In spring, the festive play is manifold, but the depth of the heart is not. In this turning of time, the density of color overshadows the glory of fragrance and proceeds to flaunt abundance. Those with whom we forge friendship in spring—all our gaze falls not upon the life within them, but upon their outward hue and sign. In this sense, spring's teacher may be called great, for a color that washes away loses its mark, and with such color one can only paint moments at best, never a whole life. If this law is broken, sorrow alone is the inevitable gain.