Now, when I wrote last March about the winter gone by, remarking that it hadn't quite been the real thing, the season probably took it to heart.
Because this year, it seemseager to hell-bent on outdoing itself.
The sun appears and disappears at will. Fog appears - and does not disappear. Chilly winds go tearing down the streets at sixty miles an hour. Every time I uncap my little jar of Vaseline, I end up digging my finger into petrified petroleum jelly. And last evening, my roommate spent twenty minutes on the terrace, and returned to the room sporting a dewy halo around her curly brown head.
The first couple of times that the mercury dipped to (below?) record levels, the media took to prowling the streets and accosting already-harried passers-by with questions on how it feels to live in a cold, cold city like Delhi. Then, as the mercury stayed put where it had fallen, the microphone- and camera-wielding folk lost interest. At least we have been spared the chagrin of being reminded of our North Pole-esque circumstances on national television. Brr.
But I'm still in love with all you seasons, Winter, so, try as I might, I can't hate you.
Basant Panchami slipped by in a haze of fog and muted sunshine. Saraswati Puja. Pushpanjali, sarees, marigolds, camphor. A silent, fervent prayer to the deity of Knowledge and Music. A trip with friends to the Bengali School grounds at Civil Lines. The remainder of the day spent at the Book Fair at Pragati Maidan, or somewhere on campus.
This year, the prayer was the only part of it all that happened. Memories followed.
Because this year, it seems
The sun appears and disappears at will. Fog appears - and does not disappear. Chilly winds go tearing down the streets at sixty miles an hour. Every time I uncap my little jar of Vaseline, I end up digging my finger into petrified petroleum jelly. And last evening, my roommate spent twenty minutes on the terrace, and returned to the room sporting a dewy halo around her curly brown head.
The first couple of times that the mercury dipped to (below?) record levels, the media took to prowling the streets and accosting already-harried passers-by with questions on how it feels to live in a cold, cold city like Delhi. Then, as the mercury stayed put where it had fallen, the microphone- and camera-wielding folk lost interest. At least we have been spared the chagrin of being reminded of our North Pole-esque circumstances on national television. Brr.
But I'm still in love with all you seasons, Winter, so, try as I might, I can't hate you.
Basant Panchami slipped by in a haze of fog and muted sunshine. Saraswati Puja. Pushpanjali, sarees, marigolds, camphor. A silent, fervent prayer to the deity of Knowledge and Music. A trip with friends to the Bengali School grounds at Civil Lines. The remainder of the day spent at the Book Fair at Pragati Maidan, or somewhere on campus.
This year, the prayer was the only part of it all that happened. Memories followed.
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