TRAVEL
Reminiscing a season that carries with it many wonderful memories of a childhood spent in the hills.
It is November, my birthday month and winter has just about arrived in most parts of the country changing the colour and countenance of its skylines. Except the city which I live in, Mumbai, where there is no winter. There is at best a nip in the air. This is why when the season approaches, the longing for everything that comes with it takes central stage in my headspace. Winter for me is a season imbued with the smell, taste and flavours of my childhood.
What I love most about winter are my memories associated with activities around food. We lived in a house surrounded by hills, in Assam. After a sumptuous lunch, my sister and I, supervised by our grandmother, and a bunch of neighbours would sit in our garden, by the pathway that led to the house, and peel oranges. Eating them with our backs facing the sun and listening to stories was an afternoon ritual. Before parting for the day, I would collect the rinds for my mother. She was good with creating something new with throwaways.
I miss that part of winter when after layering up in piles of clothes, we would measure ourselves in front of the mirror, and judge which one of us looked bigger, and better with the cap. The woollen balls of which would dangle over both ears and swing in a certain rhythm as we trudged uphill for a cup of chicken butter soup on wheels.
Winter meant gathering on rooftops and cooking pork chilly one last time, with friends, before the end of the year. And going home for the holidays. And curling up in bed to watch mushy Christmas movies.
Every winter of my childhood was spent planning an extravagant menu for picnics. We lugged baskets filled with mum’s egg sandwiches for the road. And pots and pans, and other paraphernalia for the lunch to be cooked under the sun.
Winter in January heralded a season of community feasting. Along with our parents, we would stay up late in the night to make a dozen traditional sweet cakes, locally termed pitha. The night before the harvest festival (Magh Bihu), which actually marks the end of winter, neighbours would gather in the makeshift hut cum community kitchen to prepare a grand meal. The bonfire outside kept us warm. The meal in high spirits.
A December winter in the city is mostly about travel. To the mountains. That way I get to see, smell, taste and experience it in totality. In the past, winter always meant going home. Now it is about getting out of home in order to feel at home. There’s lots of reminiscing, lingering in bed with no guilt, cooking delicious meals, catching up on unfinished books, baking, watching sunsets over the hills, shopping for gifts, going to parties, eating Christmas desserts, saying goodbye to the promises made, but not kept… And looking forward to another year.
Bhutan Photo Courtesy: Sharmi Dey.
Copyright of [Sharmi Dey] and [Deyscriptions], 2018. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this site’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to [Sharmi Dey] and [Deyscriptions] with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Deyscriptions 