The reassuring , and mildly complaining drone of broomstick , long handled , against the unearthly amounts of dead , drying and crisp dry leaves , to be swept every evening . The boy is uncomplaining . Slightly meditative as he rakes up the yellow brown crisps into piles . Before he can fetch the piece of nylon tarpaulin he uses as a receptacle to gather the ever floating reminders of winter , the evening breeze has scattered them . Again . He watches , with resignation , rests his broom handle against the huge peepul trunk , rubs his hand , blowing into the cupped hands for warmth , turns up his collars and hisses through clenched teeth . Then he begins all over again .
This is a stark reminder that winter has begun .
An all pervading aroma of moth balls , as mildly forgotten woollens and blankets are dug out of the trunks , beneath bed storage lockers , and guest room cupboards . Kids hug their rediscovered school leggings and mittens , gazing at them with fond remembrances .
My writing schedule is influenced by the presence or absence of the sun . If sun comes out , even if it isn't warm , the sensory receptors of my eyes , override those of the skin and it immediately " warms the cockles of the heart ," according to my husband . He has read this phrase ages ago , and wont let it go . So , window curtains are parted , biblical fashion , and a clean path of ideas leads one to warmer climes and green meadows of lush , verdant prose .
On sunless days , I wrap myself up in several layers , and let the gloom of the skies descend into my heart . I sit in my room , sipping my coffee , and thinking dark , dismal thoughts . I bark at kids , my maid . My hubby gives me wide berth on those days . Magnet fashion , one is drawn like a moth to the reassuring but artificial solace of glowing electric heaters , however puny .And fleeting . For nothing notches up the electricity bill like the heaters , geysers , blow driers and induction stoves .
The hiss of the electrical kettle invades my thoughts . Kids keep brewing coffee for themselves at odd hours , hubby has to have gargle water post his meals and that one kid needs to sneak into the kitchen for a hot bowl of ramen inspired maggi . Fashioned in a short cut manner , with hot boiling water .
Yesterday , I saw a gaggle of mountain babblers , fluffed up against the winter , sitting so close to each other on a branch , so as to appear skewered , their incessant chattering almost silenced against the cold .
In some ways , winter enables me to write better . Like the pariah dogs who , for lack of shelters , dig themselves into a shallow crater of dust , before curling up tightly into a ball . Flies disappear , so do moths . Summer opens up the world for distractions , with its constant sunshine , hum of activities and throbbing life . Winter , on the other hand , is a sombre reminder of all that we are blessed with during summer . The warmth , the fruits , the veggies , and the cheeriness . Hence , making me more contemplative and introspective .
Winter feels , tastes and smells different .
Then there are picnics . Winter time in India is famous for family picnics , under greying and occasionally raining skies . Friends and family gather together , plans are made , fire lit , lot of good , bad , outstanding , or down right outrageous cooking is done . There is great deal of laughter and a ton of memories . i remember one winter , a cousin's sock was discovered in a cauldron of dal , that too , after consumption of most of the lentil lying on top . Needless to say , that particular cousin's popularity points dropped down a lot .
So, winter writing rocks . For the simple reason that its different .
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