“This is the time of harvest,” Baba said, showing them the golden fields of wheat and gram. “The weather is perfect for festivals like Diwali (which sometimes falls here) or harvest festivals like Pongal in the south. The sun is warm, but the nights are cold. We eat sesame cakes and drink warm spiced milk.”
“This is – Autumn,” Baba explained. “The sky becomes crystal clear. This is when we celebrate Dussehra and Diwali. The moon is so bright you can read a book by it at night.” season months in india
“This is – Summer,” Baba said, fanning himself. “The rivers get low, the earth cracks, and we crave cold watermelons, mangoes (the sweet king of fruits!), and thick buttermilk. Everyone rests in the afternoon shade.” “This is the time of harvest,” Baba said,
Baba laughed, his breath a small white cloud. “India is a land of six seasons, my sons, not just one or two. Our ancestors called them Ritus . The cold you feel is – the Winter Season.” We eat sesame cakes and drink warm spiced milk
“!” Baba shouted over the thunder. “The Rainy Season! July and August . The peacocks dance, the frogs sing, and the farmers plant their rice. The whole land drinks and breathes again.”
“Ah,” Baba sighed happily. “Now enters – Spring. March and April are its months. The old leaves fall, but new ones sprout. This is the festival of Holi, when we celebrate the death of winter and the birth of joy.”
Baba and Riya laughed. And the cycle of the seasons—the endless, spinning wheel of months in India—continued its perfect dance.