Sounds like a deciduous tree ...

- Moment-to-moment-proficient tailor

- Oh, where is my Ashadh, where is my universe, where is the cloud, where is the sky, where is the festival of ragas sung according to the season?

This morning a friend reminded me that hey, tomorrow Ashadh starts. I gave a short answer of 'yes'. Then a few other third things happened. At the time of this conversation I had in my hands the young Noah Harari's 'sapiens'. ‘Sapiens’ is in a sense our own story, our own history. Here 'Ashaadh' comes to my mind along with 'Sapiens'. Yes, everything comes and goes like slow flowing water. Scenes are formed and sometimes they disappear like stars. We are leaving a lot behind with the claim of moving forward. In this left behind, our crippled consciousness also disappears. We also almost erase the true signature on it. We are proud to continue the search for new shapes, but nothing hurts about fading prints. Alas, the moment has come to calculate how much we too have become extinct by thinking a little deeper.

The memory of Ashadh makes me more upset rather than healthier. Where is my Ashadh, where is my universe, where is the cloud, where is the sky, where is the festival of ragas sung according to the season? Where is the humorous poet who takes the whole nature in his depths for the sake of Ashadh? Where is the rainstorm that used to be a constant stream of memories? Where are the trees, the mane trees, which, by becoming the spokesmen of the rain, enchanted the universe with their expressions of beauty, of new values? Where are the rivers that used to take the minds of many from the random flow. Did it look like lightning at every turn? Hey, where was that hope then? It was just a small part of our little Madhuli-like life. Each season was a song of our own breath.

Each month was the epitome of our own loved life. Ashadh was my inner festival at one time. But the slowly changing world seems to have snatched that feast from me. My hope is gone, a lot has gone away, in a way. If Tagore had been among us today, among these 'sapiens', I don't think he would have spoken of the 'filled cloud' and 'zero temple peacock' soaking wet with the novel, or he would have liked to sing these verses in a mixed melody.

We, our i.e. the history of these sapiens have left the whole wetland of life barren. And the 'development' of that direction is also increasing. What is the point of Ashadh to withstand such 'development'? Ashadh is like a frightened bride. Between Jeth and Shravan his position remains like a sandwich. This ninth month of the year, like a pregnant woman, needs a new childbirth, but now that we are seeing its initial forms being annihilated, where is its original form to come back from? Ashadh comes quietly and walks away under the same pressure of shame.

Where do we, the troubled people, turn our heads in that direction? Elsewhere, at one point this gabru was revealing something so beautiful that even the cloud was coming alive, the whole vocal cords of the birds were being filled with new ragas. Some people are obsessed with the sky day and night. Even the trees were swaying and talking to each other's hearts. The new river made not only infants but also the elderly a little rebellious. The tombs of the mountains were breaking, the loneliness of the valleys was melting. Human language paved the way for silence and touch. Gabru Ashadh kept on searching for the language of the heart. He would lead us to the letters of our existence ... That is why I feel embarrassed while reading 'Sapiens', but at the same time, I also feel a little calmer than remembering the Ashadha I experienced years ago. It was in this hope that the new river would reach its banks with amazement to raise the water.

The innocent eyes of the naive girls like Saav Ashadh who go to worship Goryama in the temple every morning are remembered. The vratakrida of the girls who become brides and grooms on the night of Jagran still evokes the same thrill. The mind would be confused by that frightened hope, the sleeping heart would be tickled, a world of trembling would be created for no reason. Making life a treasure ... Today both the river and the man are dry.

That's why he gave a short answer of 'yes' to that friend. Everything is like a rushing train, this compartment, that compartment, that compartment - gone. Our Maugdhya also only hears the whistle of a distant train. I stand on the platform, alone accompanying the Sussam platform! Ashadh will come but where is Ashadh? Everything looks like a deciduous tree ...