Winter in the magical woods

The seasons are our reminder of the cyclical rhythms that govern life, and in Shillong every season had its own charm. However, for the children, winter was a magical season. For Shillong, at its elevation of five thousand feet, is cold by Indian standards and schools declared a winter holiday for the months of December, January, and February. We had three enchanted months during which we were free to roam the woods and play in the fields from dawn to dusk. The weather during these winter months was also conducive to outdoor activities, with day after day of sunshine and virtually no rain.

The temperature generally stayed at about fifty-five (or so) degrees (Fahrenheit) for the day-time high and between twenty-five and thirty-five degrees for the night-time low. The games we played were the games that children usually play in India, mostly cricket and soccer and, when we were very young, hide-and-seek. We, of course, enjoyed these games immensely as kids everywhere do. But it was the times that I spent in the woods and fields when I was not playing but simply wandering around, surrounded by the majestic beauty of the pine and eucalyptus trees, that were the most wonderful.

The mighty Himalayan mountain range was visible at dawn, like a white patch of fog in the blue sky just over the Northeastern horizon. It looked like it was within walking range and aroused wild dreams of adventure in many of the children. But, of course, we soon found out that it stayed just as distant no matter how far we walked. I often left the playing fields to roam the woods, as their wild beauty and tranquility attracted me very greatly. And it is in these woods that I experienced some of the deepest feelings of my life, even though, as a child, I did not consciously know that, since I had no knowledge of what or where life would take me later.

The woods that I loved so much were the property of the Queen of Bijni, a small principality located in North Bengal, near Nepal. They covered approximately two hundred acres in the heart of the town and were located not more than a quarter mile from the neighborhood where I grew up. They contained hundreds of tall pine and eucalyptus trees, as well as gurgling streams and profusions of wild flowers in various colors. The eucalyptus were not native to Northeastern India but had been planted many years ago by some Australians who had brought the seedlings from their home country.

I would sometimes lie in the woods and just listen to the sound of the wind as it swept through the woods. This sound is the closest thing to the music of the spheres, much beloved by poets, that I can possibly conceive of. It would start with a low hum from so far away that I thought that it could even be the Himalayas, increase to a roar as it approached, and finally rise to a crescendo—whooh—whoooooh—Whoooooooooooooh! It would tear through the forest blowing over my face and shaking the trees. Leaves and pine cones dropped every now and then to the ground, and I would pick up the odd pine cone and toy with it.

The cone would seem so small compared to the huge pine trees towering over me, but it was somehow quite complete, containing as it did, the life force, the latent power to become the giant tree in the course of time. I did not stop to think then that the wonder does not stop there—for that pine cone, and indeed every little atom and particle inside it, reflected a course of events encompassing the entire universe since the beginning of time. It was a microcosm of the universe, just as fully as I and you are.

And so is everything around us—everything is in reality fully complete since it is a reflection of everything else. As the poet Walt Whitman wrote, “I believe a leaf of grass is no less than the journey-work of the stars” (Whitman 2005, 93). But my young mind was not yet ready to understand deep philosophical concepts, nor did it need to for it was in intuitive harmony with the world around it.

The wind never stopped to rest, but raced off again—to who knows where, the other edge of the universe perhaps? Of course, this cycle repeated over and over, as though the wind chose to be reborn again and again just for the sheer joy of being alive. I use the word “alive”, for lying there under the trees, I had no doubt in my heart that the wind, the woods, and I were all alive and indeed closely related to each other, all the handiwork of the very same marvelous, creative universe. I was too young to consciously articulate such a thought, but I felt it in every part of my being.

I now understand that the three elements involved—the wind, the woods, and I—were all necessary actors for this little play, an enchanted and fleeting sideshow in the divine dance of creation. Just as I needed the woods and the wind to experience the serene joy of nature, the woods and wind would not have had their magic charm without my consciousness of the music they created. And then, there was, and still is, the mystery of it all—what was this consciousness?