Growing up in NCR, I loved the winters. The early morning smell of wood fire seeping through windows announced the advent of winters like nothing else. I remember struggling to wake up and still shivering despite being bundled up in layers. The constant struggle to get our hands warm enough to hold a pencil but adventurous enough to blow smoke rings through the fog. Winters in NCR are also synonymous with the wedding season; I remember trying to be a fashionista with trendy outfits, only to gulp numerous milky machined coffees with chocolate powder sprinkled on them, in a bid to stay warm.
But if I had to pick my most fond memory, it’d always be the books. Being the eternal dreamer, I always loved to get lost in the bookish world of dreams. But winters, it provided the perfect canvas to do so. The morning mist added a cloud of extra fairy dust to the first kisses. The languid afternoon sun gave the slow-burning feelings a magical dimension. The cold dark nights by the heater wrapped in Razai made the stories cosy, yet real. Winters always provided a mystical touch to the world of books.
On school days, I’d run back from the bus stop, easily a 2 km walk, restless to get back to my fictional realm. The high school drama? All forgotten. The moment I finished lunch, I’d drag the well-used mattress from the living room to the tiny enclave we had the luxury to call a balcony. Wrapped snugly in a woollen kambal, I’d read the stories about human emotions, mysteries that’d keep me guessing, lose myself in classics. With warm sunshine and the fruity oranges for company, I’d read for hours together; these characters and stories were more real to me than my surroundings.
Close to Christmas, when the schools closed for a break and the exams were months away, we’d go on frequent trips to Connaught place, the centre, and heart of saddi Dilli. Winter mornings were spent downing sumptuous Aloo Paranthe with dollops of butter and then catching a bus to CP. I’d roam around the charming white columns sheathed in the red and green Christmas decorations, catching up with friends, and discussing the memories from the books we read, dreaming about making some of our own. Having our fill of warm aloo chaat from the colourful stalls peppered all over the circle. Then immediately making a trip to the British Library, picking up the next lot and settling down on the lustrous grass next to Palika bazaar, with countless cups of teas to keep us warm. Devouring romance, thriller, mythologies with equal gusto as if they were kakdis with aamchoor sprinkled.
As I grew older, it became difficult to spend my favourite season in my favourite place. Winters in each city brought different aspects. While in Amravati, it brought assignments and exams; in Chennai, it brought a respite from the intense humidity. In Bengaluru, amidst work, winters were lost; in the UK, we found a way to re-enact some memories from the countless Enid Blytons we read. But one thing that was constant in my ever-changing landscape was my love for books.
On winter mornings, I can be occasionally found scrounging through a good second-hand book store (online these days) or Amazon looking for books to read. And post that, I can be found tucked away in different meagre sunlight-filled corners of my house with my head inside a book and my mind lost in dreams.
Rituparna Ghosh is a Transformational Life coach and the author of 'Unloved in Love' and various other short stories. She writes on relationships and lives in the United Kingdom. Her books are available on Amazon.
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