After the Monsoon

Towards the end of the year, those few monsoon clouds that still linger over the Himalayas are no longer burdened with rain and are able to assume unusual shapes and patterns, chasing each other across the sky and disappearing the spectacular sunset formations.
I have always found this to be the best time of the year in the hills. The sun-drenched hillsides are still an emerald green; the air is crisp, but winter’s bite is still a month or two away; and for those who still take to the open road on foot, there are springs, streams, and waterfalls fumbling over rocks that remain dry for most of the year. The lizard that basked in a sun-baked slab of granite last May is missing, but in his place the spotted forktail trips daintily among boulders in a stream; and the strident sound of the cicadas is gradually replaced by the gentler trilling of crickets and grasshoppers.
Now, more than any other time of the year, the wild flowers come into their own.
The hillside is covered with flowers and ferns. Sprays of wild ginger, tangles of clematis, flat clusters of yarrow and lady’s mantle. The datura grows everywhere with its graceful white balls and prickly fruits. And then, of course, there is the delicate commelina, a breathtaking sight. It always stops me in my tracks. I forget the world.
But only for a moment. The blare of a truck’s horn reminds me that I am still lingering on the main road leading out of the hill station. A cloud of dust and a blast of diesel fumes are further indications that reality takes many different forms, assailing all my senses at once! Even my commelina seems to shrink from the onslaught. But as long as it is till there, I take heart and leave the highway for a lesser road.
- Ruskin Bond in Book of Nature