E-Paper
Humour by Rehana Munir: Here comes the sun
A (city) bird’s eye view of mid-Jan revelries ranging from sarson to kolam
It’s not usual for city birds like myself to think of crops and their seasonal rhythms. But it’s January 14, and it’s hard not to fall into that pastoral idyll of rabi crops being harvested and winter-weary folks assembling on whitewashed terraces bathing in sunlight while flying colourful kites and eating til laddoos. In truth, I’ve never encountered festivities as witnessed in Hum Dil De Chuke Sanam or Kai Po Che, having always lived in a city where building terraces remain rudely shut, and the only interest around Makar Sankranti is in relation to this question: Does it bring with it the mythic gift of a long weekend? Not this year, alas. Even so. I plan to be more mindful of the end of the harsh winter season and the consequent arrival of longer days to do nothing much in.
Where have the simple pleasures gone?
It’s that time of year when temperatures drop sufficiently enough—even in Mumbai—for us to contract viruses as inevitable and crushing as a hike in gas prices. This year, they carry the added appeal of Covid. I’m currently laid low by one such bug that’s running back and forth through my social circle like a student with a subsidised railway pass. But at least there’s the fleeting chance to wrap oneself in one’s grandmother’s shawl and slip on the pair of woollen socks one ambitiously bought from that charming little shop in Kashmir. Laugh all you like, Dilliwallas. We have our little joys.
Bug or not, I’m committed to feeling the warmth and cheer of the festival. It doesn’t help that I don’t have a taste for sesame, nor can I enjoy kite-flying knowing that glass-coated manjhas injure countless birds. There are no simple pleasures left, she says mournfully. No, no. One must focus on the uplifting connotations of the day. I will not surrender to the dark forces. Let’s leave that for Holi and its promise of a punishing summer.
My pot runneth over
Pongal, the Tamil version of the winter harvest festival, spreads over four days and flaunts a wholly different production design, to use a Netflix-era metaphor and expose my city-bred ignorance even further. “Pongal” literally means “to boil over/to overflow,” I have it on Google authority. (A kitchen phenomenon I’m an expert at, no matter what I’m cooking.) The traditional dish of freshly harvested rice gives the festival its name. Kolamor— rice flour rangoli—adorns thresholds and courtyards during this festival of thanksgiving. My exposure to these beautiful rituals can mainly be attributed to regular trips to Mumbai’s South Indian hub, Matunga, exquisitely described in Amrita Mahale’s debut novel, Milk Teeth.
Breakfast there is a well-chronicled cliché, but it’s still refreshing every time I go. Around Pongal, cafés are festooned with marigold strings, just like malligai poo, or jasmine strings, wound around the hair of women in kanjeevaram saris. I’m always envious of the sense of community as families returning from temple prayers squeeze into little tables busy with rasam-vadas and ulundu dosas, the mandatory sheera and filter coffee signalling the end of meals. But, I confess, I have a special love of cheese masala dosas, no matter how harshly I’m judged by the OGs.
To click or not to click
Bhangra and gidda; sarson ka saag and makki di roti; and singing and bantering around a bonfire are the dominant images from the Punjabi Lohri. (In pre-Partition India, it was a regional rather than religious celebration, celebrated by Sikhs, Hindus, Muslims and Christians alike.) Of course, for so many of us in our boxed-in apartments, the night ends to the sounds of Sukhbir from a neighbourhood party, and the smoke from burning wood hovering over the city like a Shakespearean omen. Ah, for a simple pleasure that doesn’t plug directly in to climate catastrophe.
I’m far more optimistic than these frequent departures into despair suggest. Even though we may not feel the connection directly, lost as we are in our urban mazes, these seasonal changes are still part of our human programming. Who doesn’t feel a surge of well-being when sunbeams burst through the winter sky with a message from spring in that made-for-Instagram moment? And if you’re really lucky, you’ll forget to take a picture.
Follow @rehana_munir on Twitter and Instagram
From HT Brunch, January 21, 2023
Follow us on twitter.com/HTBrunch
Connect with us on facebook.com/hindustantimesbrunch
