By H.H. Mohrmen
Autumn is a beloved season of poets, yet what the poets and writers do not always tell us about this “season of mellow fruitfulness,” as John Keats describes it, is that it is also a season of trepidation. If it is the harvest season for humans to fill their granaries, it is likewise the time when animals gather and build their stores before winter sets in. The ants are busy collecting food and carrying it into their colonies underground. The winged creatures take their last determined flights to gather nectar and provisions before the cold arrives. It is, in many ways, the last mile of the year, the final stretch before reaching the year’s end. If autumn were to be compared to a human being, it would be like a woman in her bloom, a flower at the peak of its beauty just before it lets fall its petals to the ground.
Autumn, however, is also an important and demanding part of the year, in which both animals and humans are occupied with urgent chores. Like their human counterparts, insects are busy collecting food to sustain the colony throughout the cold and dry winter. It is the final leg of preparation before the coming of winter, and during this season we sometimes encounter conflicts between humans and animals. Beneath the soft golden light and the pleasant ambience of autumn lies an undercurrent of anxiety, for every living being senses that time is short and that preparation cannot be delayed.
In the early part of November 2025, there was a report that a woman from Myngkoilum, a village near Umkhyrmi on the Assam–Meghalaya border, had allegedly died after being stung by bees. It is rare for someone to die from bee stings alone unless there is a severe allergic reaction. However, there are many stories of people dying from wasp attacks. In all likelihood, the woman may have been attacked by wasps, and certain species of wasps can indeed be deadly when provoked. The incident was a sobering reminder that autumn’s beauty does not exclude danger.
Last year, I spent much of my time in the villages, which allowed me to do what I love most, which is to visit the forests and be in nature. During one of my visits to a plantation site, after climbing a hill, I met EDS, who was doing his usual rounds, checking the trees and tending to them. Accompanying me was the village headman, WS. As we exchanged greetings, I noticed that EDS was carrying something unusual in his backpack. A few stalks of dried rice straw were protruding from the top. It puzzled me, for rice straw could be found everywhere at this time of year. It was autumn, and farmers had just completed the harvest in the many paddy fields around the Myngkjai river basin. So I asked him why he was carrying rice straw in his bag.
Before EDS could reply, the headman interrupted and recounted an unfortunate incident that had taken place only days earlier in the very area where we stood. Students and teachers from a local educational institution had set up camp on the banks of the Myngkjai River. It is a picture-perfect location for camping and picnicking. Some members of the group ventured from the campsite to trek into the nearby hills. Without warning, a swarm of angry wasps attacked them.
Fortunately, local villagers were nearby. They rushed to help and took the injured to an herbal medicine practitioner in the village, who carefully removed the stings and administered remedies to ease the pain. The situation could have been far worse. Though no lives were lost, the incident left a deep impression on the students’ community.
There are many kinds of bees and wasps found in the Jaiñtia Hills. A few that I know by their local names are u Ñiang Li-oor, u Kyieiñ, and u Lwe, along with others whose names I hope friends from the hills will help identify. It is well known that not every wasp attack is deadly, even though wasps often attack in swarms. Yet there are stories of people losing their lives to certain species. Some types are especially dangerous, so relentless that even if one dives into water to escape, the swarm may hover above, circling until the person resurfaces for air, and then launch their attack. Whether these stories are exaggerated or not, they reveal the fear and respect these insects command.
I believe, however, that no animal attacks without reason. Our elders have always taught us that if we encounter a snake or any wild creature, we must leave it in peace. The wise thing to do is to stop and whisper, “I do not wish to disturb you; you go your way, and I will go mine.” In most cases, the creature will withdraw. Animals attack only when they feel threatened or when their space is invaded. Humans, too, are not different are they?
In the case of the recent wasp attack, farmers later discovered that the swarm had been disturbed, not by humans, but by an eagle. They saw the eagle striking the hive with its powerful wings before soaring upward to a height beyond the reach of the wasps’ small wings. The eagle too was scavenging for food for its own survival and used the only trick its instinct could come up with, that is, to attack the hive and then fly high in the sky. The enraged swarm, like a black ball rolling in the sky, moved together in one direction and attacked the first living beings they encountered. It was a tragic chain of events, set in motion by the natural instincts of predator and prey.
We do not know which insect was responsible in such cases, for there are many varieties of winged creatures prevalent in the Jaiñtia Hills region. Farmers in the Sohmynting area shared with us several local names: u Lwe, u Tkaw, u Tkhi, u Kyieñ, u Ngap ïong, Ngap Thohpan, u Kyieñ klong, u Ñianglabatun, Ñianglioor sooleij, and u Ñianglioor khian. Altogether, about ten types of wasps and bees are identified by local farmers, though only two varieties of bees are clearly distinguished. This indicates how rich and diverse our natural environment is. It would be interesting if young people who study zoology, and insects in particular, could document these species and provide their English and scientific names. Such work would preserve valuable indigenous knowledge.
Now, what does this have to do with the rice straw that EDS carried? According to ancient wisdom, in the event of a wasp attack, one should quickly burn rice straw to produce smoke. It is believed that winged insects are sensitive to smoke, which disorients them and drives them away. Having heard of the recent incident, EDS prepared himself with the only safety measure he could conveniently carry and that is rice straw. It was not an act of fear, but of prudence.
Another incident occurred this autumn in a nearby village while our friend KL was harvesting rice. Suddenly, he felt a spray of liquid strike his eye, followed by sharp pain. He had been attacked by an insect locally called Ñiangryngkseiñ (Nezara viridula f. aurantiaca). Unlike bees and wasps, this insect does not attack in groups and is not known for flying in swarms. Instead, it defends itself by spraying a pungent liquid, which locals sometimes describe as “insect urine.” KL immediately washed his face in a nearby stream, yet his eye swelled and he endured pain for about a week.
So what is it about autumn that stirs both wonder and a faint sense of unease? Perhaps autumn is not merely a season of beauty and ripeness, but also a reminder that change is inevitable. It reminds all living beings which include humans, birds, insects alike, that they must brace themselves for what lies ahead. The fields may be golden; the air may be gentle, the sun mellow, yet beneath the calm lies urgency.
Autumn stands at the threshold between abundance and scarcity. It offers harvest, yet whispers the arrival of cold dry winter. It adorns the hills with myriad colours, yet signals the shedding of leaves. It invites us to celebrate, yet urges us to prepare. In its warm and pleasant ambience there is beauty, but also concern about the uncertainty of the time to come.
Perhaps that is autumn’s true nature: a season of transition, urging every creature to prepare, to endure, and to move steadily toward the long shadow of winter. In its soft golden light, we see both fullness and fragility. In its stillness, we sense movement. Autumn, in all its splendour, carries within it both gratitude and guardedness. And in that delicate balance between abundance and anxiety lies the true angst of autumn.
