They say winter is cold for those with no warm memories. The recollections of happy times spent with family and friends, the big or small victories of one’s life insulate one from the chill outside. The most vivid image that comes to mind about winter is an Eskimo, waiting with his harpoon raised, over a frozen lake, to spear a fish. In the background is his igloo. It is an inspiring vision of man battling the elements for his survival. For those who crib about the chill, inspite of centrally heated homes and offices, there is a lesson in this.

If there was one person who welcomed winter gladly, it was my maternal grandfather. A tall, reed-thin man who was spare with his words, Grandpa seemed to have a silent communion with Nature and the seasons in a way we had not seen with anyone else. In the sprawling garden by the banks of the Bhogdoi, Grandpa teamed up with Nature to celebrate the advent of the season. Rows and rows of cauliflowers, tender peas, plump tomatoes, squat aubergines... everything grew and flourished under his tender care. And when the day’s work was done, and the cows were fed and covered with warm sacking for the night, he would light a fire in the countyard. There, wrapped in his eri shawl, he would regale us with tales of long midnight rides in the tea garden where he worked, and show us the scar on his elbow when a half-grown tigress had knocked down his cycle. In the glow of the fire, his face was gentle and ruminative, never filled with any rancour for the hard knocks life had given him. It was the winter of his life too, but his wise and capable hands made everything grow and flower around him, so that he too always seemed young and filled with hope.

There is a ritual of winter with which we are all familiar, namely, the retrieval of our winter woollies from the closet where they lie the rest of the year. You try to put it off as long as you can, then you find the chill catching up on you. So out come the caps, coats, mufflers and sweaters, smelling of napthalene balls. Sometimes, you find they don’t fit you any longer and are consumed with guilt about your lack of exercise or over-fondness for the wrong foods. Sometimes, you wonder what made your mother or wife knit that dreadful pink pullover for you. But you greet your winter clothes like old friends who have been away for a while and will be now by your side to combat the elements.

There is another cute winter guest which routinely makes its presence felt, especially in the lives of the aged populace. It is a warm, cuddlesome and dependable companion during the long winter nights. Yes, you’ve guessed right. It is the hot water bottle, quietly dispensing warmth and solace as the cold winds blow outside and the fog rolls across the hills.

An unmistakable aroma that is associated with winter is that of roasted groundnuts. The hawker I meet on my evening walks is a stout, thick-set man with skin the colour of polished ebony. Clad in khaki trousers, woollen sweater and a tattered shawl, he stands beside his cart, stirring groundnuts and sand over a brazier of coals. Without missing a beat, he scoops the nuts into a small paper packet, accepts the change and goes on stirring. When the night deepens, he trundles his cart and disappears into one of the city’s slums, only to re-appear the next evening.

A familiar sound that heralds the coming of winter in India is the sound of the twanging made by the stringed instrument used by the quilt and mattress makers. They move up and down the residential streets with that quaint noise that is like some antique impromptu orchestra. In these days of machine made duvets and mattresses, their demand has lessened, but there are still some householders who hire them. After some hectic bargaining, the men sit down to work. The sight of cotton being winnowed has a hypnotic effect. They work quietly and skilfully, stuffing cotton into sheets of cloth, stitching them with large needles and, by sundown, the householder has a brand new mattress or quilt before him. It is an ancient trade, carried on for generations.

Glorious sunshine, cloudless blue skies, the invigorating air make for perfect pic-nics. At an unearthly hour at dawn, revellers would troop into a hired bus with groceries, utensils and firewood handy, and drive away to some pristine river-bank for a day of games, singing and a feast cooked over a slow-burning fire. Pranks would be played, romance would blossom and the loud-speakers blaring filmi songs would scare all birds and beasts within a ten mile radius. However, picnics as a leisure activity seems passe nowadays and the urban youth of today show a predilection for the nearest CCD hangout rather than a foray into the lap of Nature.

It was Goethe who wrote that “sometimes our fate resembles a fruit tree in winter. Who would think that those branches would turn green again and blossom, but we hope it, we know it.” Life is an endless cyclical phase of growth and decay. When a man departs from this world, it is with the satisfaction that his name will live on, in the children he has fathered, and in the good deeds he has accomplished.

At this point of time, when global warming is a real concern, we are grateful when winter comes along, for we fear a time when this season may vanish altogether, and with it, the poetic images it brings to our minds.

i_raimedhi@yahoo.com

Indrani Raimedhi