My Neverfoundland

Steam from chai mingling with fog. The result a damp swirl that dances before the eyes before floating away into the neem tree. Silence trudges to and fro on the deserted road, carrying the heavy load that the fog has put on its back. Gulp down the first chai so that another hot cup can keep the cord of the warmth from breaking down. Birds are numb, leaves motionless, sky lost somewhere. The chai fellow, simultaneously happy and irritated, with the merry chai drinker of the unearthly hour.

Just then a razor-sharp noise slashes through the white curtain. Wheels trundling on the gravel and even as the clatter cuts through the chill and the chai to reach the ears, something flashes before the eyes. Men, all wrapped up, with their profiles barely visible, huddled over bicycles, furiously pedaling. Bicycles laden with huge bunches of flowers. Roses, gladioli, gerberas, orchids, birds of paradise, anthuriums, angel spray, nestling in green leaves, tied up in ash-coloured fabric. Each cycle slices through the fog and vanishes as a second one replaces the frame. In the monotone of the fog, the splashes of colour coagulate mid-air and stay there as the black outlines of the dozen or so cyclists melt into the fog.

The chai freezes, the hand holding the cup stunned into an askew angle. And, silence shoos away the remnants of the wheel-talk. Was it for real? Or just a chemical explosion in the brain?

Early morning. January fog. Parliament Street, New Delhi. Flower-sellers on their way to Baba Kharak Singh Marg for the early-morning wholesale vending in the bay.

Delhi winters are made up of cameos like this. Trees that drip dew in Amrita Shergill Marg even when it is not raining. Hot Moong ka Halwa at Kaleva’s. Langar at Gurudwara Rikabganj. Rosy apples piled up at Central Secretariat. Planes descending like smoky mountains at the mouth of the runway on Jaipur highway. Chrysanthemums in Defence Colony market. Adrak Chai flavours mingling with the fragrance of mattri outside Metro station, Chandni Chowk. The occasional flash of feminine colour among the grey/black/blue/brown masses of sweaters that walk on ITO road. Women knitting away furiously everywhere – on buses, in offices, on India Gate lawns and in balconies. And steaming Aaloo paranthas in road-side bunks.

It is a winter that haunts and terrifies the spiritless. It kills the cowards. It chases the weak-hearted into their blankets. It tip-toes through sealed windows, from under doors and nibbles at the toes of those who hide. It burns scrunched up skin, rattles chattering teeth.

It is a winter that loves those who let go. Those who run through the leafy streets of delhi like hot blood coursing through veins.

‘Before the stars have left the skies,

At morning in the dark I rise’
I watch the sharp, crystal-clear air
turn into milky fog in a trice

I am indefatigable, I seek romance.
On deserted streets, I do a snowman dance
Chilly air, breaths verbose
I shoo away the stealthy sunrays

If winter be always
If fog never goes away
Over the wintry days and nights
when I hold merry sway

My life’s one-act drama
unfolds amidst curtains hushed
Alone, lost and content
Angst frozen and desires unleashed

Winter!!