The Onrush of Winter

Methinks there are signs of winter in Mumbai. Yesterday evening I caught the cross breeze in the sitting room; it felt deliciously cool. Plus the breeze carried with it a hint of eucalyptus and the ozony taste of ice. It was just 6. It must be the winter.

Our's is a contrary world where we celebrate winter. Truth be told, it is far easier to combat summer. Losing a few clothes, seeking shade, drinking iced-water (or surahi ka paani) and fanning with, well, anything that is next to you - and voila! the heat abateth. Even if momentarily.

Combating flesh-numbing winter is a different kettle of woolley clothes. It demands luxuries of arrangement that most of even the wealthy don't have in their homes in Mumbai! Not because they lack the INR, not by the long clalk! We simply do not have a clue of what it takes to combat cold.

Its long been a favourite (and reactionary) theory of mine that we do not find too many beggars in the West because they simply die of the cold! Its too difficult to survive the winter - too bloody expensive as well. On the other hand, the poor of India just need to go nanga-panga, have umpteen cool dips under neighbourhood water handpumps and taps , beg from goras, wait outside gurdwaras and other places of worship to get a fair meal, and sleep in the open, under the starry sky of the subs/fumey soup of the metrop. How easy! No blanket, no joota, no topi, no patlun, no hot food every 2 hours to keep the metabolism from freezing over..... You see what I mean?

Imagine a world of Bharat mata, plunging to -20 in Febrrrruary! Imagine Mumbai under 3 feet of snow, imagine each restaurent, each office, each home centrally heated by something or the other (a continuing shower of INR), imagine the fineness of the (exorbitant) woolly patlun on each one of us (woollen undies tooo!!!); imagine the thickness of the (10,000 INR) joota, the fur under the (3000 INR) topi.

What you cannot imagine in this scene are the frolicking urchins at the Andheri junction, thrusting a nosegay or a dud book (who would lower the glass to let the icy wind inside?); you cannot imagine the clutch of families under the Kalanagar flyover, sitting beneath wisps of cloth they call home and making garam-garam bhakri over brick-ka-chulha (Hah!). Nor can you see, in your mind's eye the thousands that sleep on the pavement starting from Churchgate station, along Marine Drive into all crannies and flat land.

And Good Lord! What if it rained ice-cold, razor-sharp slivers of sleet in the midst of all this frozen madness?

Heavens above, thank you for giving me my sweltering, gassy, shirt-sticky summery-winter!!!