Sweet Chill

The scent of growing up has always been evident in just one season – winter. The first few years of my existence, till almost I reached an age of double digits, I followed by principle a very strict Scandinavian lifestyle more out of convenience. My mother, a lady of inculcated training and routine had ingrained me two things very early in life. One was that good boys do not stay out of home after the street lights are on and two that the world was round and hence there were climates, time zones in different parts of the world (which was necessarily round, made of fold mountains, which increased in height every year, which made them colder because of altitude by a complex formula etc etc, which I would explain in a different post, since it makes for a very different kind of read!). I had followed them to the T for many years of my life and to this day, I feel rather homesick when the street lights turn on till raucous orders of my boss shudder me to consciousness and make me start acting busy again. But that again is another story. The fun of winter evenings was always in getting wrapped in the furriest blanket of the household and minimizing exposure to the atmosphere at large. Till a very long time the exposure would be close to zero, until constant nagging from my mother on the apathetical negligence to my education would mean that my net exposure would often have to be my eyeballs.

I just loved winter. For many things. The variety of food was imminent so much so that with the advent of the first carrot, or the first normal tomato would be the harbinger that winter was near. And then would start the whole ritual of preparation. The aroma of naphthalene with the fragrance of chicken and the hiss of the pressure cooker would fill up the house on a Sunday, timed perfectly before the mercury would actually fall. And in the midst of the theme of Jungle Book emanating from the black and white TV set, the portable cot would be laid in the sun at the small “lawn” (we would love to call it lawn, makes you aristocratic you see!) and the well protected woolens and blankets would be placed for providing them the desired tan to their complexion. That would be the entertainment for the morning for as soon as that would be done, I would fall upon the heap with my back to the sun to the chagrin of many. Depending on the time of winter, my companion would be a book – the choice would be between one within curriculum or one without. Often you would just dig your nose deep into the depths of the woollens and smell the naptha. The dust would often result in sneezes ending in tears.

A rigorous oil massage (this oil again has a story of itself being a concoction of basil, mustard oil and powered by a fortnight of solar energy) in the sun and a sumptuous lunch after, this would again be just the appropriate place for an afternoon siesta. At almost dusk, the cold would just start to get cooler. By the time the conch shells would start to blow from the households around, I would try to find ways and means to sneak into a blanket. But, the lure of a hearty evening snack would often keep me waiting. Winters have snacks of their own, delicious and fart-able from the smacking peas kachuris to cauliflower stuffed samosas. And concealed within the comfort of the blanket and a contented stomach, concentrating on homeworks were really tough. The annoying part would be when dad used to come back from his innumerable walks and when the door opened, the cool breeze would often sneak in and the laws of diffusion would suddenly come into play.

There are sudden ways of every neighborhood, the sound of silence of every town, the chorus of crickets with that of silence, the symphony of a faraway jackal to tunes coming from musicals of bards trying to keep themselves warm around a small fire and some activity. For many years to come these sights, scents, tastes were symbolic to that of winter. The biting hostility of the winter chill trying to force into your socks as you rode a bike, the eerie silence of a midnight mocking out of Irodov, the odor of radish emerging in a late night belch made us realize winter.
But if I were to pick my favorite it would obviously be peeing on the drain beside our small reservoir of water. The early morning pee would always be smoky and when you spoke to yourself, the rings of mist that created an aura of unearthliness so much so that you seemed oblivion of the chirping birds and an irate father, “Get going fast or you will be late for school.”

When in the hostel, winters took an entirely new meaning. The senses were different. Mornings would be marked up by the radiant sunrays trickling through the leaves of trees in a smooth blend of the mist and the fog and as you admired the same, you suddenly realized that winter had arrived as you touched the metallic part of your bicycle only to be slapped back to your senses by the sudden chill. From the tranquil laziness of the laidback industrial town to the frenetic activity of the campus, the transition was indeed bewildering. The activity would start right after diwali as the inter college sports were about to start, fests were about to occur. The darkness of the road leading to our hostel would be illuminated from the light emanating from the basketball courts and would keep on diminishing over the misty grasslands on the other side. Late night huddles over a glass of tea and mouthfilled smoke would be reminiscent of the life that once was. And then again in the dead of the night when the world went to sleep or undercover from the chills of the corridor, if you ever ventured out, from amidst the myriad concoction of films, songs and clock alarms, you could still hear a distant bard singing to a heartfelt tune and having imagined the fire near him, you could suddenly feel warmth inside.

Circa, life of a Mumbaite or more importantly that of a train commuter, where you hardly get to realize that anything akin to a season of winter ever exist. Constant transgression of technology have not let us share our moments of exclusivity with cauliflowers, carrots and tomatoes and professional pursuits have not let us have the comfort of being wrapped in bed till the sun would find its way from atop the trees to dazzle you as my father drew the curtains to the sides (in fact it still dazzles us, but from the wee hours of the morning, since trees do not find a place in modern metropolice lifestyle). The reminder would be the diurnal ablution when after a satisfying potty, the touch of the water gives a sudden feel of contraction. The lack of mist, the attenuating thought of hiding your corpulent self inside the comforts of a leather jacket, and the weakening capability of the cutting chai to light the flame of warmth inside, makes you feel a stranger or more so that you have traveled a long way from the drain that you used to pee in. Still in the maddening blitzkrieg called survival, winter would suddenly crop up on you, when you dangled from the local train as the wind turned chilly and fondly ruffled your neck under the collar or send a chill down your back, or froze your fingers as you held on to dear life or just cursorily commented that your skin has really gone rough. Winter would creep up on you in the lonely evening, when the local nashta boy (the one who brings in snacks) at your office would suddenly meet you in the face and say, “Saab, aj Punjabi samosa hai, gobi wala, chutney chahiye kya?" (Sir, today we got the ones stuffed with cauliflower, would you mind a pickle to go with it?)