The Winter’s Tale

The English winter – ending in July, to recommence in August. Lord Byron.

I have been turning my mind to the weather lately. There is just the hint of a cold snap in the air and most of us are rubbing our hands in joyful anticipation at the onset of winter. Now, I do realise that when I casually talk about welcoming winter with the proverbial red carpet rolled out, I speak from an Indian perspective. It’s all very well for Nobel Laureate John Steinbeck to say things like ‘What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.’ He is used to wallowing in the cold. I am more on the side of Virginia Woolf who held that ‘Melancholy were the sounds on a winter’s night.’ Then again, she would say that, having weighted her pockets with stones and walked straight into the nearest river, never to surface again.

 Someone reading this in Europe, Russia, the United States or Canada will not take kindly to my wintry observations. In those countries, winter denotes unpleasant things like shovelling snow from your doorstep, heating pipes blocked, water pipes frozen, cars stalling and your pets pooing or peeing inside the house seeing as it’s too cold for them to venture out to do their business. Always assuming that the pets’ pipes are not irrevocably blocked to allow free flow of bodily wastes. In sum, I can only thank the weather gods that I do not live somewhere in the northern hemisphere. Conversely, we do not anticipate our summers here with glee whereas those from far north of the equator can’t get enough of the sun. Clearly, in this instance what is sauce for the goose is not sauce for the gander.

Where I live in Bangalore, we enjoy what the experts call moderate or temperate weather. The winters are mild and pleasant. Our pets return from their walkies outdoors looking very pleased with themselves, having deposited their ordure in front of somebody else’s gates! That said, nowadays most pet owners carry around fancy gizmos to responsibly scoop up the dog turd and dispense with it elsewhere, presumably flush it down their own toilets. Which still leaves us with the problem of stray dogs treating the entire neighbourhood as their public urinal or lavatory, but we shan’t worry our pretty little heads with that for the moment. After all, what do we pay the civic authorities for? Point to ponder – why do we never talk about cats in this context? Think on it.

 If Bangalore’s winters are balmy, the summers are hottish, air-conditioning required at nights for about six to eight weeks tops. Blame it on global warming. I know things are much harsher in the northern parts of India where room heaters and electric blankets are pressed into service during winter and most homes have installed central air-conditioning during the stifling summer months. I shall not entertain some smart-alec, idealistic, bleeding-heart college student shedding crocodile tears asking me ‘What about the poor, huddled masses, who have to sleep on the pavements?’ What about them, indeed? There is not a lot I can do about it though deserving charities do get my modest attention. I am as distressed about their plight as you are, and just as helpless. So go back to your air-conditioned rooms and weep into your goose down pillows (again with the geese) for the unfortunates and dispossessed. Otherwise, go and sleep on the pavements with the masses and show some genuine solidarity. Not unlike what some of our former leaders apparently did to experience what Mahatma Gandhi was going through during his incarceration under the British. If not, hold your peace.

Sorry if I got carried away there. There are times when you, as a writer do not always control the direction in which the narrative takes you. One thought leads to another and you veer slightly off the beaten track. Let me return to the weather. In India we essentially talk about three distinct types of weather patterns – summer, monsoon and winter. Period. Did I hear someone pipe up with, ‘What about our spring festival, Holi?’ In certain English-speaking quarters in India, we do refer to Holi as the spring festival, but go and ask the man on the street what he understands by ‘spring’ in the weather sense. He will look at you blankly, shrug his shoulders and walk on. On the other hand, he might make some passing reference to his bed which has a spring mattress in urgent need of changing as some of the springs are poking out dangerously.

The same goes for autumn. Autumn Leaves is a lovely song by Nat King Cole. Autumn is also referred to as fall, particularly in America, but autumn is the more common currency. Just as well. Fall Leaves does not quite work as a song title. In India we do not see leaves falling gently to be raked in by gardeners. Here we see whole trees fall when thunderstorms and typhoons strike, blocking roads, snapping electric poles, cleaving cars in twain (at times with passengers in them) and generally causing mayhem and power shutdowns. Along the way, many human lives are lost.

So much for the grim side of the weather. Let me look at the lighter side of human behaviour in India with respect to weather changes. In Calcutta, where I lived for many years, winters can be quite chilly during December and January, cold enough to bring out the woollies and the monkey caps. Add to that the fog and smog that envelope the city, leading to respiratory illnesses in every other family. The average denizen of Calcutta, however, goes by the dictates of his calendar, irrespective of weather conditions. November 1^st means the full-sleeve sweaters for men and the ladies’ shawls must be brought out in all their finery. So many parties to attend what with Christmas and New Year just round the corner. Never mind that it is still clocking a clammy 32 degrees Celsius in the shade. The wall calendar has declared winter and its commands as to the appropriate attire shall be scrupulously obeyed.

The city of Chennai has three seasons: summer, summer and summer with the barest hint of a cool breeze when the weather gods feel so disposed. Sea breeze, they call it, being located on the coast, but we only have their fabled word for it. Incredibly, some of the Madras-vasis can be spotted wrapping a scarf round their faces and a shawl to cover their torsos while visiting temples early in the morning or attending concerts in the evening at the various sabhas during the famed music season. The acrid, camphor-like, pungent smell of mothballs aka naphthalene balls, spread out for long periods in the almirahs keeping the termites at bay, announces its arrival from several yards away as the shawls swish with the mythical sea breeze.

 As for the state of Kerala, I don’t think they even have a concept of what winter means, even in its mildest form. ‘God’s own country’ is hot and insufferably humid right round the year, and when the rains make landfall with much fanfare to announce the onset of the eagerly-awaited Indian monsoon, it just pours sheets for days and weeks on end. Only the school going children are happy, thanks to the enforced holidays. At the same time, elsewhere in the country the parched earth reels from drought as the suffering millions pray for rains. Top that for tragic irony. Many other Indian cities and towns will have their own tales to narrate about how our changeable weather affects them. I had to confine myself to the metros I have lived in.

That is the Indian weather. In a nutshell. Two extremes. Feast or famine. Take your pick. Rains are good for the crops, but excess of it spells misery, even for the crops. In conclusion, King Leontes in Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale exclaimed, ‘Too hot, too hot.’ Not having read the play (and not intending to), I lack context, but it does seem a very odd thing for the good king to say in a tale about winter. Perhaps his menials placed too many logs in the royal fireplace.