Snap, crackle, pop: Fireside memories of winters gone by

How crisp Delhi winters used to be. The walks, outdoor concerts,beautiful weddings... what a pity we must now see it all through a grey mist, says Poonam Saxena

With Delhi’s air increasingly unbreathable at this time of year, I can’t help but think of the magnificent winters we once had.

It was a certain perfume in the air that always told us the seasons were about to change. Around Dusshera, the city would be filled with a mysterious, heady fragrance. For years I had no idea what it was. I learnt much later that it came from the green-and-white flowers of the saptaparni or devil’s tree, which blooms from October to December.

In his book Trees of Delhi (2006), Pradip Krishen says the saptaparni was first planted here in the late 1940s, which means most Dilliwallahs alive today are familiar with its intoxicating scent.

As the cold set in, this perfume would be overlaid with the faint, smoky fragrance of small wood fires lit by chowkidars and street vendors. Swaddled in blankets, they crouched around the flames, hands outstretched.

Back then — before the frenzy of construction and stubble burning, and before everyone saw fit to drive around alone in an SUV — the days were full of golden sunshine and blue skies. Freed from the oppressive heat of much of the year, I remember walking so much: to the markets, to friends’ homes, to parks and gardens. One glorious winter day, I recall walking with a friend from Delhi University to Connaught Place, a distance of more than 10 km, stopping for little chai breaks along the way.

Relatives and friends who visited from warmer parts of the country were always at a complete loss. How do you put up with this year after year, they would ask. I never knew how to explain that we didn’t put up with it, we delighted in the season and all its accompaniments.

An annual winter ritual was the elaborate switching of one’s wardrobe as we put away our cottons and took out shawls, cardigans, sweaters and coats. Quilts stowed away the previous winter were aired in the sun. (I vividly remember being all but buried under heavy razais that weighed several kilos, in the years before today’s lightweight duvets.)

Then there was the food and drink. We ate oranges and roasted peanuts while soaking in the sun in a garden, terrace or balcony. We stocked the pantry with fortifying sweets such as gazak, rewri and til laddoos. Nights were for sizzling barbecues paired with spicy hot toddy or a bit of brandy and hot water.

Street food never tasted better: crisp tikkis, hot samosas, and kachoris and jalebis fried over an open fire, their enticing aromas wafting with the steam. Platters of winter salads full of crunchy carrots and radishes accompanied every meal. Greens were plentiful, and our kitchen would regularly churn out sarson ka saag and bathua rotis. Kind friends would send across jars of that mouth-watering Punjabi winter staple: a pickle of carrots, cauliflowers and turnips. Restaurants would put out special menus and open-air buffets.

Darkness fell quickly and suddenly; it was dusk by 5 pm. This was the perfect excuse to curl up under a heavy blanket, with a book, or huddle around the heater and chat.

With no noxious air to deter us, the city was abuzz with events too: festivals, exhibitions, concerts, theatre performances, art shows, book fairs (to be fair, Dilliwallahs valiantly keep the events calendar packed even now). At the city’s fabled all-night Hindustani classical music concerts, unlimited chai breaks kept the audience warm.

From time to time, a swirling winter fog would descend. Visibility would be practically zero. All one could see were the dim outlines of people shrouded in coats or blankets, and cars crawling along the streets, red emergency lights flashing. Everyone had a fog story to tell: how it took them hours to navigate just a few km, how their plane was diverted or how their train was 12 hours late.

And the flowers. Delhi burst into colour in winter, with dahlias, chrysanthemums, pansies, periwinkles and goodness knows what else.

One can’t speak of the winters we once had without mentioning the outdoor weddings, where men turned up in suits, sherwanis or achkans, but the women swanned about in beautiful silks and gossamer blouses with nary a shawl in sight. That was a skill only Delhi women had!

To think, today, one would have to find a mask to wear with it all. What a pity we’ve let it come to this.

(To reach Poonam Saxena with feedback, email poonamsaxena3555@gmail.com