Winter Memories of the Delhi I Know

I discovered the magic of winters on a windy November evening. Its charm was lost on me earlier, for the fabled crystal-like incandescence had forever evaded me, to be substituted by clumsy encounters with uneven heating and itchy clothing. Before that silvery night, I had associated the season with long drawn sneezing attacks and a constant fuzzy torpor that makes it difficult to be productive.

It must have been around 8.30pm in the night, some four years ago. The day had gone by as usual — starting at six in the morning, it had seen the pace be set by customary shenanigans at the morning school assembly, followed by a rush to disperse back home. From there, I had headed to my dance studio.

But I was bearing a strange excitement that day, for I knew, that unlike other days, I was to take a ride back home from class all alone. My neighbour, whom I usually commuted with, was away; for what reason, I do not remember any longer. Upon the dismissal of the last class, I wrapped my purple woolly muffler around my neck. With a dusty tote bag strapped over my shoulder, I was ready to get going.

The first step out on the road made me curse under my breath, for it was never easy to leave a room warmed with the sighs of artistes pushing their mental and physical thresholds to achieve seemingly impossible feats. The studio smelt of sweat and aspirations, and the road outside was a mix off vague stories and too many emotions to identify.

It was sudden. Every time I revisit that nostalgic flashback, I am immediately transported to that moment on the busy roadside. I had been walking for about ten minutes, looking for a three-wheeler to take me home. Bouts of biting wind were crashing against my face every five seconds, and I could barely keep my eyes open against their secret whispers. In a moment, I spontaneously wrapped my arms around my body, until my hands were digging into the pockets my sweater, and dug my nose deep into the warmth of my neck cover. In that instance, it hit me.

My breath was keeping me warm, and my zest for life was more than enough to keep me going. I could feel loose strands of open hair going rogue from the ties of the muffler, but I was too comfortable to move my hands and ward them off my face. I was cold, I was tired, but in that moment, meeting myself, I was also happy and wholesome.

Since that day, I fell in love with the winter season, for that is when I find comfort within myself. Every second of every day reminds me of how the blood running inside of me has the ability to keep life running. I felt happy to have myself back then, and ever since, I have striven to come closer to myself and discover deeper tones of the orange glow of life, rather than resorting to extraneous elements for heating.

I had this revelation as I felt and enjoyed the clean air on my face. I had this moment with myself, because even on the bustling road, it was quiet enough for me to hear my own thoughts. I had this moment, because at the time, winter season in Delhi was different.

Today, the world is coping with the consequences of a severe climate crises, and my city is a part of it. As Delhi hits the news for a deteriorating air quality index; dimmed sunlight, snoozing behind the veil of stubble smoke; and numerous other concerns defining a new winter, I am taking to the streets to talk to people who still call this city home.

With these people, I will be exploring memories of a cleaner, albeit colder Delhi. Each post will share with you, my reader, a heartfelt memory, a joy of winter, a flashback of revelation, emotion or simple living of a moment. These Winter Memories of the Delhi I Know will be your (and our) road back to a warmer haven amidst the famed biting chill of the capital city of India, and what it means for the people who have lived it.

So stay tuned for what’s coming: brew your hot cocoa, don your purple muffler, and get cosy for a glowing read every Sunday.

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