The name itself says much.
I have an inexpressible likeness for whatever that deals with a bit of source-finding. I remember Narayanan's Malgudi Days and those texts which I read in my primary school classes. One of the favourite words I still feel makes me a bit paralysed, when I dont understand what I am thinking or what should I think of. Such a word is, harvest. It does import so many images and to my greatest delight, they give such peace, making me think that I have a longer history or past to mourn on.
I knew this word from my social studies book, called 'The Way We Live'. Then some or the other literary texts, where harvest or rather, a good harvest calls for a celebration, these celebrations largely stayed confined within small farmers or just wage-labourers. I never went to attend such a festival where the motive were new grains, infact, I never realized that I should go. And this has been one of my aversive tendencies towards my own cravings, and I am still following it. Anyways, but without being present at any baisakhi or onam or pongal or nobanno- I could feel the essence of those festivals which were brought by a good harvest. Sliced images of the dropping sun and the scrap of falling grains from the farmer's bowl, come into my vision with the very mention of the word, harvest. May be, or obviously, this source code deciphering is absolutely typical for any neuclear person like me who wants to belong but does not know how to. Anyways, but my decoding, however, very very naive, continues. The word makes me create a perfume of dry, tempted, dusty skin. And as the face lurks for some moisture, the pond comes splashing. The smell changes. Somewhere it is of burnt chapatis, somewhere of overnight rice, and somewhere just the burning woodstock-flames gives out an unbelivable fume, which consoles of more journeys and less destinations.
Now this geographical or demographical or textual word, when tends to provide me some solace I try and spread this emotion to the farthest corners of my void and insanity. I look for a harvest that will ensure rice to my bowl forever. But when will that rain come. It does rain, infact, it is raining right now, but will the seeds find enough water to fertilate itself or it will just give me those squeezing feelings that most of automatic "eleven minutes" generate. I do not know. Neither a climatologist nor a geomorphologist I am. But I want to know how many of us are. Or I am just the typical jealous. I do not know either.
I know I can discover essences from no where and sounds from outlandish silence. I know I can bring on the rain and I can fertilize any land. I also know all these will contribute in a tremendous harvest. But I am not looking for any other harvest. Only the other day I read about a harvest in the newspaper. The people of Jharkhand had their long wait for the rain, through three successive droughts, ended. Even this much is not going to be sufficient. My harvest of all seasons will need something which I always had but never really acknowledged. So, now I again do not know how many successive droughts I am going to observe or rather bear.
I dream of an unbelievable rain. I see myself drenched to a state from where I would never get completely dried. The same river comes flowing and flooding the entire valley of my scared soul. The wind consoles with every gust of wave and says, this is it. I can feel the uprooted trees hit me down to an abysmal depth. But inside nothing would touch me. I know I am mixing tenses. Actually, I have become so deaf and so dumb and so lame that I need all the doses much more than the usual. May be my harvest of all seasons will destroy many tranquiled singularities. And that is why it has become The harvest of all seasons which will be only compulsive when other singularities will also be threatened.
