Springtime stories from 3 villages

Spring is the season of nature’s awakening in this country. The trees, stripped bare by winter, burst into the joy of new leaves, and the forests are set ablaze with vibrant greenery. The Bengali spring spans two months—Falgun and Chaitra. As soon as Falgun arrives, nature in Bengal adorns itself like a new bride.

Spring in nature presents itself in three distinct forms—fresh leaves, colorful flowers, and tender fruits. In the woodlands, the season is marked by the shedding of old leaves and the frenzy of new foliage—sal, mahogany, and teak trees shedding their leaves, the rustling sounds of dry leaves carpeting the forest floor, and the trees heralding the arrival of young shoots and buds. In urban areas, spring isn’t easily noticed unless one visits parks or gardens, where fresh leaves and flowers sprout on trees. The blooming of madhabi flowers signals spring’s arrival, while the reddish-pink hues of korobi and kanchan spread across the branches. However, the raw, untamed essence of spring is best witnessed in the rural landscapes of this country. As Kazi Nazrul Islam beautifully captured in his poetry:

“Tell me, dear friend, how can I quell the fire in my heart?
Spring has arrived, drenched in the blood of blossoms…”

The arrival of spring inevitably brings to mind Rabindranath Tagore’s poem, “Aji Basanta Jagroto Dare” (Spring Awakens at the Door Today). How can one resist stepping outside to behold this spectacle? After Tagore, Kazi Nazrul Islam was perhaps the poet most enamored with spring. To witness the rural spring in its prime, I set out on a journey to the villages.

From Dumuria Upazila in Khulna, I traveled about fifteen kilometers to a village called Bhulbariya. Early in the morning, I followed a paved road cutting through the heart of the village. On either side, there were modest houses, with vast water bodies behind them. The saline fields lay cracked and barren, awaiting the rains to bring forth lush Aman paddy. The fields were empty now, with enclosures of earthen walls, locally called gher, used for shrimp and fish farming. Some of these enclosures were being repaired, while others had a few patches of transplanted Boro rice seedlings. Against the stark landscape of the barren Ratanpur wetlands, these green patches resembled little islands of life.

Many houses and gher enclosures were fenced with thorny plants, locally called sij trees, also known as Bajbaran trees. Some of these trees bore tiny flowers and fruit. Their very presence reminded me of Shubhalakshmi Ghosh’s story Bajbaran, where an elderly man gifted a child a cactus-like plant, saying it had the power to ward off lightning. Ironically, that same elderly man was later struck by lightning. The origin of the name Bajbaran remains a mystery, but this tree, also known as Nerisij or Tiktosij, exudes a thick, milky sap when broken. The sap causes irritation upon contact with skin, and its thorns are equally painful. Consequently, villagers plant them as natural security barriers. Once rooted, they stand like watchmen for decades, their trunks gradually thickening like areca palms. Though often mistaken for cacti, Bajbaran belongs to the Euphorbiaceae family, while true cacti belong to the Cactaceae family.

I spotted two genuine cacti in the village—one was Phanimansa (Opuntia), with its flat, thick, paddle-like stems dotted with tiny spots from which buds emerged, and the other was Mandacaru, or hedge cactus. The latter had no buds or flowers this spring. I found more of these in the neighboring Chandgarh village, where they had grown so tall that their tops towered over rooftops. Mahmuda, a local resident, told me that she had been seeing these plants unchanged for the past 23 years—growing tall, breaking, and regenerating. These plants occasionally bloomed with large, white flowers resembling water lilies, though none were visible this season. It amazed me how this Brazilian plant had made its home in such an obscure village of Bengal a century ago!

Behind one house, I noticed mahogany trees—two varieties, one with small leaves and the other with larger ones. All bore woody, brown fruits, some of which had split open, scattering winged seeds. The trees had shed their old leaves, allowing fresh green foliage to emerge. Nearby stood a towering Lombu tree, often called white mahogany. Its upper branches flaunted a striking reddish hue, as if stained with blood, much like the autumn foliage of sorrel trees in America—except here, the transformation occurs in spring as new leaves sprout.

The Shimul (silk cotton) trees were aflame with red blossoms, while their soft branches hosted parasitic plants like Dhairea (Manda). Even mahogany and mango trees bore these epiphytes, their broad, lead-like leaves drooping from the branches. Among them, a few Shweta Shimul trees stood bare, without leaves or flowers, but adorned with clusters of lantern-like green fruits. Parrots and kingfishers flitted among the branches, and at dawn, the call of the cuckoo filled the air.

Spring had also touched the village roads lined with Sajna (drumstick) trees, which had recently bloomed with delicate white flowers, now replaced by slender green pods hanging in abundance. These trees were like the village’s own version of cherry blossoms. Near the bamboo groves, the dark undergrowth was illuminated by clusters of Bhat flowers, their fragrance filling the morning air—reminiscent of Jibanananda Das’s lines:

"The rivers, fields, and Bhat flowers of Bengal,
Once wept like ankle bells."

The landscape was further adorned with Khoya Babla trees, which, after flowering, now bore pale green, delicate young fruits. The fresh foliage of Megh Sirish trees bore clusters of unripe seed pods. Among the dense greenery, mango blossoms, tiny guava and jamrul fruits, and the aromatic blooms of pomelo trees filled the air with their intoxicating fragrance. Wild vines like Jiga and Dudhikata climbed over shrubs, their light purple and creamy white flowers adding subtle beauty to the rustic scene.

Finally, I reached Akra village, where nature seemed to have saved its most enchanting spectacle. Here, on the pond bank of Darpanarayan Biswas’s home, stood a Parijat (Nyctanthes arbor-tristis) tree, its vermillion-clad flowers blooming in clusters. This was the same mythical tree that Lord Krishna had brought down from heaven after a battle with Indra. Nearby, a dense cluster of Ashadhilata vines bloomed with hundreds of pale pink, brush-like flowers.

A little further stood a few Akanda trees, including a rare White Akanda. Their soft branches bore clusters of blossoms—plants revered for their medicinal properties. The village was also dotted with bushes of Ghagra and Hudo grass. The residents shared that one of their ancestors, a folk healer, had planted several medicinal trees in the past. While most had disappeared, three ancient Parash Pipul trees remained as silent witnesses to time.

As I gazed at these rare trees, laden with round, greenish fruits, a villager kindly plucked some dried ones for me. Carrying a pocketful of seeds, I set off for Dhaka, determined to propagate Parash Pipul trees in the city. As far as I knew, only one such tree remained in Dhaka, standing outside the Department of Architecture.

Mritunjay Roy: Agricultural Scientist & Nature Writer