The soft haze of a transient autumn has, almost imperceptibly, diffused and shaped into the stricter contours of winter. Poised on the cusp of seasons a mere fortnight ago, a transition distinguished by unseasonal and sustained drizzle, we have dipped a toe in the pool of the new year and find ourselves caught in the throes of the famous “Delhi cold.”
And to complement the plummeting mercury, residents -- or dare I say mannequins -- materialize robot-like from the yellow-tinged haze, cocooned in layer upon stifling layer, face covered up to the eyes, negotiating the unfamiliar clothing while gradually gaining the momentum of the morning walk. A gray pallor pervades the atmosphere, and while the days are still astonishingly bright, the sun that shines is deceptive for the lack of warmth that it chooses to throw on a ground colder with each passing day.
The fingertips tingle, and the warmth of internal combustion and circulation succeeds in overcoming the clammy discomfort only after a very energetic first round of our celebrated walkway. Oh joy! All is not cold and harsh. Is that Bengali Aunty, surrounded by her personal paradise, lovingly watering her children? Yes, it is indeed, and the Garden of Eden responds gratefully.
Many-coloured pansies, white chrysanthemum, bright marigold, ornamental cabbages with alternating layers of white and lilac, scarlet poinsettia, strands of blood-red bougainvillea which shall soon overflow in joyous abundance and, novelty of novelties, a money plant red-black in colour, acquired from the interiors of mysterious Himachal Pradesh. The wall of blazing colour shouts its happiness to the sparse sunlight.
And, to digress, I have been informed in indignant tones by the favourite aunt about certain subterranean mutterings regarding a certain somebody having captured a stretch of very-public pavement, whereas a certain somebody else, admittedly, has done nothing of the sort. Well, perhaps, but come to think of it, why doesn’t the association exercise eminent domain and annex all unused footpaths and convert Heritage City into an extended botanical garden? They would do us an invaluable service.
While on the subject, let me cast a quick light on the neighbor on the other side who tentatively, furtively, adds a flower pot here and a bracket there on the long and patient journey to acquiring her own slice of paradise. The next season, dear reader, promises to be even more spectacular.
Fortified by the beauty and the hastily-snatched conversation, I continue, only to draw up short again. My momentum is interrupted by the sight of a body shrouded in white, emerging suddenly from the tower, borne aloft on sturdy shoulders. To gentle murmurings, the resident was laid into the confines of the waiting ambulance, the advertisement of comprehensive funeral services complete with contact details emblazoned on its side.
In seconds a silent knot of the near and close had gathered, caught in their sorrow and reminiscences and doubtless pondering on the inevitable progression of life. I joined my hands in respect and stepped back, standing apart from the bereaved, and waited for the hearse to depart with the cortege. I had no right to partake in the sorrow, but to observe silence was the reverence accorded to the moment, the loss, and to those who are left behind.
But we celebrate the magic of life by living. I was sobered but grateful for the world that we occupy. And I noted with renewed appreciation how the retired generation is, once again, asserting the tacit authority of the old. Slowly, systematically, insidiously, they capture the precious patches of warmth, and sit fast. The cabal of the elderly is so amusing in its various manifestations of childlike cunning, transparent and clever and so charming because of it.
But they have to contend with a portly young woman, academic glasses perched on her nose, who conducts an unbroken series of conversations on the smartphone which appears welded to her ear. Her constant companion is a pig-like dog, a rather sweet fellow, who swivels his head silently from side to side, staring philosophically into the middle distance. Our duo manages unfailingly to monopolize the bench in front of their tower which, crucially, is bathed in the morning sun. Kudos to you, lady, and pray: How did you stave off the opposition?
One objective of the morning exercise is to illustrate examples of the routine. And what better example than that of the stray cats who abound in Heritage City and have attached themselves to the pushes and pulls of life in the complex? How they nonchalantly saunter across the road directly into the path of an approaching car, and how predictable my laughter at the efforts of the unfortunate driver, right at the top of the day, who initiates a ritual to suit his or her level of superstition. Do you screech to a halt? For how long do you remain stationary? Do you put the vehicle in reverse? I guffaw, uninhibited, from a distance and from behind my mask.
The days are cold. But they gallop into the welcoming arms of the night, and each new morning pulls us closer to the comfort of the South Asian sun. If this were not true, then how could one explain the speed at which the year went by and already, in the first week of January, threatens to become a distant memory?
Dear reader, I had provisionally stored certain elements in my shopping cart. Please permit me to take them out and wish you Season’s Greetings and Happy New Year.
We shall most certainly be in contact.
Sumit Basu is a freelance contributor writing from India.