Weather of my discontent
As snowflakes pierce your face, you'd do well to recall the wintry warmth of Delhi sun, writes Varupi Jain.
When more than a couple of friends politely start complaining that your e-mails read like weather bulletins, you are tempted to reflect on just why weather-talk becomes an obsession sitting here in Western Europe. No, I do not resort to weather-battering because it is one of the most neutral topics to exchange views on. I am forced to talk about the weather, my dear, because often that seems to define the very texture of the day itself.
As I key in these words at 8.30 pm, I have to struggle to escape the bright sunshine piercing its way through the window. And I dare say this after a long, snowy, windy winter of my utmost discontent. A winter which I spent trying in vain to dodge an unusually heavy snowfall this year. I would leave Leipzig happily when it did not snow only to be received by a snowstorm in Berlin. You guessed it - when snow did not reach Berlin during the day, it joined me at night in Leipzig.
As the snowflakes nearly pierce your face like glass-shards, you'd do well to recall the wintry warmth of the sun in Delhi, when on a lazy January Sunday, you'd enjoy lassi and peanuts. And no, it is not just distance and nostalgia which bring back these cozy images. There is ruthless objectivity to it. You have no choice but to warm up with memories when you do not see the sun for days together - you leave home when it's hell-dark and return when it's even darker. Life is not beautiful.
And now, in July, when the countdown to the monsoons is surely approaching its crescendo in bharatbhoomi, it is hot and stuffy here. Do not say that's something to be thankful for after the discontent of the winter and all that. It is hardly a fair trade-off when bright sunshine wakes you up at 5.30 am and refuses to part until way past 9 pm. The days are so long, so sticky, so stuffy. Yes, one could look at the bright side. At least you can walk out the way you sit dressed in the room - you do not have to mummify yourself in an entire lithosphere of woolens. So what if there are no fans and ACs in usual homes and hostels, so what if you spend uncomfortable, stuffy nights - you are from India, you are not supposed to complain about the heat!
I can recall an unavoidable afternoon walk in Stuttgart in sun so bright, that I was forced to use my umbrella. On the main road, a German took the trouble to halt his car and remind me that it is not raining and I can fold back my umbrella. Things you haven't seen are often the things you do not understand.
Yes, I can feel the Delhi heat on my back. I know how it can boil and melt you. I know what the weather reports carried until a few days ago - how agonizing the weather conditions are, how perspiration, dehydration and dusty winds make life miserable for many. Monsoon is tracked by the day and all predictions are at best funny. But you almost yearn for that when all you've seen in the past few months is snow - milk-white, slush, snow-rain - take your pick. Yes, you do make snowmen but the drop in such enthusiasm is directly proportional to the drop in mercury below zero.
The icy winds, piercing through many layers of clothes, make your skin tremble with unease until you become numb and lose even the faculty to hate the weather and curse the concerned Gods. And where are those heroes rolling down the snow-peaks? And the heroines dancing in the snow in saree and sleeveless blouse? Usually people have everyday, banal and boring concerns - whether the trains will arrive despite the storm, whether the snow piled in front of your house will be cleared just in time for you to catch the tram.
Again, it is not just distance and deprivation which inspires such thoughts. I have analysed the weather here quite objectively. Putting aside preferences, I have tried and failed to like the weather here. What can you do - here it's either uncomfortably warm or unbearably cold. Either raining or snowing. Either slush or wind. There is no perfume of harsingar to set off the winter. No litchis and mangoes inviting the summer. No pitter-patter on a hot tin roof. No kagaz ki kashti in baarish ka paani. Your senses remain unfilled, deprived.
Of course, there are perfect parks with perfectly laid creepers. Roses so beautiful that they look artificial. A delicious snowy landscape which could easily qualify for Jahangir's definition of heaven on earth. Summers which mean ice-creams, strawberries and no clothes. Autumn with resplendent change in colour of leaves. I often frame these images as I walk by and miss those little imperfections which make all seasons in India pregnant with thrill and delight - with life itself.