Cold wave

It has suddenly turned chilly in Mumbai and people have brought out their warm woollies, much to my amusement. What is even more amusing is that I sit in this wonderfully plush newspaper office, gently minding my own business – rather like Pakistan occupied Kashmir, a colleague insists – wrapped snugly in a large rough woollen shawl, since the air-conditioning is so fierce that my fingertips slowly go blue and my goosebumps have goosebumps that have goosebumps. As a result, I drink only very hot water, never eat ice cream during the day and make sure that I am dressed to insulate, even with the fat reserves that should but don’t do anything to keep me any warmer than if I did not have them.

But it is a cold day today, as it was yesterday and we are told by the weather people, it will be tomorrow. All the papers have been talking about it, citing the cold front from the North, ice fall in Kashmir, sudden drop in temperature in the mountains, ad infinitum. The reporters at the paper – as in every other daily publication and media house, I bet you - have been rushing around in various directions trying to get semi-articulate and intelligent quotes from the Met Department, the climate experts, the environmentalists, the clean-air campaigners, the futurists, even astrologers. Everyone wants a substantiation of what the rest have been saying, so that they can get their own ‘exclusive’ version of why the city is suddenly, precipitately so much colder today than it was yesterday…or yesterday than it was the day before.

And, truly, it is. I had been complaining to Father that it was a dull winter this year in Mumbai, since I had not used my fuzzy blanket even once – which I do for about a week every December-January in the city, especially very early in the mornings, before the sun is out and the voltage fluctuates enough for the fans to whiz faster than they do at other times of the day. But yesterday, after all the household chores had been done and home and hearth were in proper order, enough to keep me even vaguely happy about my housekeeping skills, I decided I would indulge in my Sunday afternoon nap. Instead of being sprawled all over my bed when Father came in to wake me for tea-time, I was curled snugly around a pillow under a swathe of warm fuzzy blanket, only the tip of my nose and a shock of wild black hair showing outside. It was a chilly afternoon, yes.

And outside is where I want to be, basking in the sunny glow on the lawn outside, except that the wind is blowing rather strongly and I hate having damp toes from the wet grass. We drive to work with the car air-conditioner off, the windows open just a crack to keep the air inside as fresh as it can be. And I am tempted to sit on my hands so that my fingers stay as toasty warm as the arm I have in the sun that beams down into the back seat of the car.

But in all this, it is not really that cold in Mumbai. It just feels that way. For this city, anything below a balmy 25 degrees Celsius is freezing and people bring out their winter clothes even as the visiting knitwear sellers from the North make a killing on their wares at street corners. Watchmen sit at the gates of their buildings around small fires in the night, their torsos wrapped in thick shawls and sweaters, their heads nicely muffled in monkey caps and scarves. And the maid comes in every morning blowing on her hands and sniffing, her nose redder than usual and her grin even wider.

It is winter. I wish it would stay like this through the year.