Winter in Calcutta takes until the middle of December to hold you in its chilly embrace hallmarked by the cosily warm touch of fleece and fingers still enveloped by the lingering smell of post-lunch oranges. Winters in this part of the world are much gentler than their cousins elsewhere. It is somehow about sleeping late and waking up even later, eyes squinting through the blanket brought up to the nose, and the unruly hair’s leisurely caressing of a sleepy forehead.
December is about the sudden bursts of passion, the zeal of those dying embers that hallucinates the eyes peeking from above a hot cuppa. For instance, this December night, consumed by one such zeal of a dying ember, I take a sip of Darjeeling, look towards the window and smirk just so slightly for my young neighbours are jamming at 2am. An interesting one, if you must know – this rendition of Ba-Ba-Black Sheep along the lines of ‘Please Mr. Kennedy’ (Inside Llewyn Davis). It’s that zeal of dying embers, perhaps.
Reclining with eyes closed, a snatch of this song I heard the other day while walking through New Market comes back to me and perhaps I am in agreement that Aj jawani par itrane waale kal pachhtaye ga and Chadta suraj dheere dheere dhalta hai dhal jayega.
Anurupa.
December 22, 2017
