I lie in the woods. The brilliance of March morning is an open provocation for me to feel unshackled from a strenuous tug of busy schedule to do so.
I lie in the sun, on the bed of soft green grass and look up through the pattern of Palash and Shimul leaves into pieces of clear blue sky.
Shimul is into the middle of its flamboyant run of flowering.
Palash is beginning to come to its own. It is all orange all about it.
There are Sonajhuri and Shishu. They somewhat stand smarting under the fiery presence of Shimul.
A cuckoo is tireless in his call.
Stray people idle about under a grand banyan tree that canopies prolifically over them in its mighty leafy presence.
One of them suddenly sings his heart out. The mystic in him produces a Lalon’s song. The woods comes alive with the melody of earth.
I praise god of all things — the botanical smell of forest, the Baul of a non-descript man, the chirp of known and unknown birds, the call of cuckoo, the touch of sweet-smelling grass and the blue of heaven.
I feel blessed. Nature is so much in her giving.
I have only my eyes and ears and heart to open to receive them.
Nature’s bounty makes me richer.
And I know Nature. I trust her. She will not leave me. Even if I leave her.
She is forgiving only for giving. It is her nature. Because it is her pleasure.