Spring in my part of the country comes a little later than the plains, but as the geraniums and irises burst into bloom, attracting hordes of bumblebees and birdsong symphonies play encore upon encore, I am reminded of the advent of spring in Lahore more than five decades ago.
The 'City of Gardens' lived up to its name then and was quite unlike the concrete jungle it has now become. Traffic was a lot less, more organised and the air that we inhaled was clean.
Spring was heralded by the sight of new shoots on the 'Shrin' trees lining our drive and the lines of 'green bee eaters', which sat patiently on the telephone line strung amongst the branches, waiting for their prey. Another indicator that winter had fled was my mother's condescension to let me accompany my grandfather on his daily early morning walk to Lawrence Garden and back.
The season would bring into view the familiar figure of Muhammad Ali our venerable old mali, who would pedal up the drive with stacks of cut flowers resting precariously on the handlebars. Then as our own garden bloomed, the house would be pervaded with different aromas and every nook and cranny would boast a riot of colour.
This was a time, when the family would take lunch in the verandah and evening tea in the front lawn. These sessions would be memorable as my grandfather's old friends and colleagues would join him and the routine would only be broken if someone was ill. My favourite in this crowd was Ahmed Hassan Khan, the maternal grandfather of cricketer turned politician Imran Khan, who would appear with a small brown paper bag containing barfi, affectionately earning the name Barfi Walay Khan Sahib. Others included Dr Muhammad Khan, father of the celebrity author Ashfaque Ahmed and Pir Taj Din, who lived opposite our house.
Flowers would signal frantic activity amongst the honey bees and trees in our compound would suddenly sprout large-sized honey combs, while the elusive and much sought after small bees would make our hedges their home. Sain would appear on the spring canvas at this point in time, complete with his dazzling smile, his chaddar, a set of sickles and canvas buckets. This colourful individual was our family honey comb picker and a hero as far as we youngsters were concerned, for his 'indomitable courage in the face of the deadly honey bee'.
This awesome character would first walk around the compound surveying his quarries. He would then cut ample quantities of bhang weed that grew around the garden and deftly fashion handfuls into torch-like elongated bundles. A niche would then be cut into one side of this torch and stuffed it with rags. When set alight the rags would kindle the weed, which emitted dense blue smoke. Sain would scramble up the tree and out on a limb like a monkey and then light up the smoking device. A swarm of bees would leave the comb, but stay away from the intruder because of the smoke, while the latter calmly removed portions of the comb, always leaving enough for the bees to return and feed their young. If any of my readers has not tasted honey by sucking on a piece of freshly sliced comb, then I strongly advise them to do so now, for nothing can beat the experience.
The season also brought with it, the exciting prospect of Basant, the traditional festival that has fallen victim to unscrupulous enthusiasts and government short-sightedness. The family would prepare weeks ahead of the day by purchasing a variety of colourful kites and dor. The ladies would rummage around for yellow outfits and menus would be discussed and finalised. Basant Eve would find us in our ancestral home within the walled city to be joined by other members of the family, for a day of unmitigated fun.
I recently asked a young friend, how he and his family celebrated Spring. I was appalled at his answer, for he had no notion that the onset of this great season was to be celebrated. Perhaps, this week's column will motivate the young workaholic and others like him to set work aside once a week and savour God's great gift to mankind - Spring.

n    The writer belongs to a very old and established family of the Walled City. His forte is the study of History.