Sunday, November 28th, 2004
Winter, while you sleep
Last night, while you were sleeping, the winter stole in.
When the night watchman rounds up some pieces of coal and lights a small fire to keep warm, it is a sign of winter. Since winter is a creature of the night in Mumbai, it is the night shift that bears the brunt of the fleeting cold.
Not the night shift that bar hops and pub crawls. That set is warm as toast (it is, in fact, toasted). The people I refer to are the factory workers (and the call centre staff who probably qualify as new age factory workers) who man (and woman) the late shift. You see them sporting light sweaters and the occasional muffler. That is the extent of Mumbai’s winter wardrobe. The wool brands from Ludhiana who advertise on Aaj Tak seem totally out of place in Mumbai.
The milkmen, fisherfolk, newspaper boys and vendors at the vegetable, fruit and flower wholesale markets do not feel the need for a winter wardrobe. Their work comes with inbuilt insulation. They are either cycling, climbing stairs or unloading heavy baskets. They are not technically the night shift but since the nights are longer in winter, they work by the light of sodium vapour lamps rather than the first rays of the sun.
By day, there is barely any trace of winter. Along the pavements, you spot clutches of Nepali families selling sweaters. At traffic lights, fruit sellers peddle little cardboard boxes bursting with fat figs and lush red strawberries. And along the occasional tree lined road (like the one slicing Mahalaxmi Racecourse and Willingdon Club), you see leaves drifting to the ground in slow motion.
Most of Mumbai doesn’t have trees. The sight of gnarled, leafless trees against a cold grey winter sky is not a cheerful one. But a leafless winter tree is better than no tree at all. Billboard companies and builders are felling trees to put up metal and concrete cash cows. At this rate, Pritish Nandy won’t be the only one to have an oxygen bar in the city. Man cannot live by real estate and retail therapy alone.
One February, I drove through suburban Boston past naked trees, a white golf course and a frozen lake. Even in the warmth of the car’s heating, I felt cold from the view alone. I have a low threshold for the cold. Even in spring, I found Chicago quite nippy as the perennial wind swept through the river and ricocheted off the art deco and echo deco skyline. I could barely take winter in Sydney although a friend from London said he had shifted to Australia just to get away from the cold in London.
Thus forewarned, I landed in London one December armed with several layers of clothing (maybe there is some merit to those Ludhiana ads after all). But while the streets were freezing cold, all offices and cafes were warm. So I would freeze outdoors and sweat indoors.
The nice part of being in London during that time, however, was that the stores and homes were dressed for Christmas. That’s a welcome backdrop to the predominantly black dress code that the world seems to stick to in winter. Summer brings with it a burst of colour but the winter, the winter is black.
The other memory is of watching the world go by a Starbucks window while sipping a gingerbread mocha. I am not normally one for flavour in my coffee but gingerbread works for me. A good cup of coffee always perks you up but a cup of gingerbread coffee perks you up and wishes you a Merry Christmas.
Once back in Mumbai, you can choose between hazelnut, Irish cream and English toffee. There is no gingerbread flavour. But then, there is no winter either.
While you sleep at night, the winter steals into the city. But when you wake up, the winter is gone, leaving a few dying embers in the night watchman’s makeshift fireplace.