All my seasonal posts begin with my favourite poet and one of his songs. In Tagore’s hands, a season is never merely weather; it becomes a mood, a memory, a secret the earth whispers to the heart.
This is what he says of Hemanta:
হেমন্তে কোন্ বসন্তেরই বাণী
পূর্ণশশী ওই-যে দিল আনি॥
বকুল ডালের আগায়
জ্যোৎস্না যেন ফুলের স্বপন লাগায়।
কোন্ গোপন কানাকানি
পূর্ণশশী ওই-যে দিল আনি॥
আবেশ লাগে বনে
শ্বেতকরবীর অকাল জাগরণে।
ডাকছে থাকি থাকি ঘুমহারা কোন্ নাম-না-জানা পাখি।
কার মধুর স্মরণখানি
পূর্ণশশী ওই-যে দিল আনি॥
Now Hemanta—or Late Autumn, as we call it in English—has come.
Of all the six seasons of Bengal, this is the one I love most. Perhaps I am partial because I am a child of this season, born in November. I have always felt that Hemanta carries a particular tenderness for those born beneath its sky. It does not arrive with the thunderous authority of the monsoon, nor with the bright, ceremonial beauty of early autumn. It comes quietly, almost shyly: in a cool breeze passing over the skin, in the faint chill of dawn, in the silver beads of dew resting on grass, and in the soft gold of a sun that has finally learned restraint.
After the monsoon and early autumn rains, when the lowlands have spent months holding water, the earth begins to reveal herself again. Fields emerge slowly from the silver flood. The soil is dark, damp and generous, enriched by silt, rain and all that the rivers have carried to her. The land seems to take one long, relieved breath—and then, having received so much, begins to give.
That is why Hemanta is the season of harvest.
In the Bengali calendar, Hemanta is the fourth season. It is made up of the months Kartik and Agrahayan and extends roughly from the middle of October to the middle of December. The air during these weeks is a perfect in-between—not hot, not truly cold, but touched by a freshness that makes every morning feel newly washed.
Hemanta is the season when the land and its people seem to come alive—not because they have ever been still, but because the year’s labour finally becomes visible. Aman paddy ripens in the fields, bending its golden head beneath the weight of grain. For farming families who have lived through months of uncertainty, bringing the harvest home is far more than an agricultural event. It is relief. It is food in the granary, money in the household, and a little light entering lives that have known too many shadows.
The faces of the farmers seem to gather the colour of the season. Their laughter becomes easier. Their homes smell of new rice, straw and cooking fires. The whole countryside appears to be wearing a quiet, golden smile.
There is a particular romance in a Hemanta morning beside a river. Mist lingers above the water as though the night has not yet decided to leave. The first light touches the current, the reeds and the distant trees. Boats move through the pale air like thoughts one has not yet put into words. Somewhere, a bird begins to call. Somewhere else, a kitchen fire is being lit.
With the beginning of late autumn, the green grasses are covered in dew before sunrise. The drops cling to leaves, petals and blades of grass like tiny pearls. When the first ray of sunlight touches them, the fields become a scattered necklace, and for a few brief minutes the earth looks dressed for a secret wedding.
Hemanta’s flowers seem to bloom with a knowing quietness. Jasmine, water lily, rose, magnolia, hibiscus and bougainvillea lend their colours and fragrances to the season. The flowers do not seem to compete with the fields; they accompany them. Toward the end of Hemanta, the heavy, earthy smell of drying jute begins to give way to the cleaner, cooler fragrance of early winter.
At night, especially in the villages, the air begins to carry a gentle warning of winter. A shawl is drawn a little closer around the shoulders. The first quilt is taken out of the cupboard. Tea tastes better in the morning, and the warmth of another person sitting nearby feels more precious than usual.
Nabanna, the festival of the new harvest, is one of Hemanta’s most beloved celebrations. The season also carries Jagaddhatri Puja, Kali Puja, Bhai Phonta and Ras Mela—each bringing its own light, music, colour and kind of happiness. There are lamps in courtyards, fairs beneath the evening sky, sweets arranged in shining rows, and the familiar joy of people gathering after a year of work.
The season is generous in the kitchen too. Chalta, star fruit, betel leaf and, above all, Aman rice arrive in abundance. Once the harvest is safely home, feasting begins. Payesh is stirred slowly in the kitchen; naru are rolled by hand; and winter’s pithas begin to exist first as a delicious promise in the imagination. In Bengal, food is never merely food. It is how a season enters the body and stays in the memory.
Like every beloved season, Hemanta has its little mischief. The cool air can bring common colds and flu, so a shawl, warm water and a little care are wise companions. Still, I cannot hold a complaint against her. She is too beautiful in her quietness.
Hemanta does not arrive loudly. She deepens. She places moonlight on the tips of bakul branches, dew upon the grass, gold inside the paddy and a sweetness inside memory. She reminds us that romance need not be extravagant. Sometimes it is simply a cool morning, a field of ripening rice, the fragrance of payesh, a shawl around the shoulders, and someone beside us whose silence feels like home.
Rash Mela is celebrated as a major festival of the Hemanta season (late autumn) in mid-November. It takes place under the spectacular autumn full moon, drawing thousands of pilgrims and tourists to the coastal regions. This vibrant event highlights the seasonal transition with traditional fairs, holy sea-bathing rituals, and rich folk performances. It beautifully captures the cultural heritage and community spirit that defines the golden harvest months of rural Bengal.
Perhaps that is why I wait for her every year.
Welcome, Hemanta. Stay a little longer. Let me walk through your dew, listen to your nameless birds, taste your new rice and fall in love once again with the land that raised me.
