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Yesterday, the first day of Asarh, the enthronement of the rainy season was celebrated with due pomp and circumstance. It was very hot the whole day, but in the afternoon dense clouds rolled up in stupendous masses. I thought to myself, this first day of the rains, I would rather risk getting wet than remain confined in my dungeon of a cabin.
A thousand years ago Kalidas welcomed that first day of Asarh; and once in every year of my life that same day of Asarh dawns in all its glory that self-same day of the poet of old Ujjain, which has brought to countless men and women their joys of union, their pangs of separation.
It is this, that on the evening of the first day of Asarh it came on to rain very heavily, in great lance-like showers. That is all. 21st June 1892. Pictures in an endless variety, of sand-banks, fields and their crops, and villages, glide into view on either hand of clouds floating in the sky, of colours blossoming when day meets night.
The year 1293 will not come again in my life, and, for the matter of that, how many more even of these first days of Asarh will come? My life would be sufficiently long could it number thirty of these first days of Asarh to which the poet of the Meghaduta has, for me at least, given special distinction.
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