Note: I wrote this the weekend prior to the last one: on Sunday, 15th of October, in a hurry. This is mostly a reflection that I felt could be published, but I haven’t spent any time fleshing this one out. It’s gone through some editing, but it’s not intended to be read as a structured piece because it isn’t one.
I wake up to comforting amounts of sunlight that only pours in rarely. Such is the case with London: a friend of mine sometimes jokes that the lack of ample sun in the UK might have been motivation enough for The Beatles to write Here Comes The Sun. It’s simultaneously cold and warm however, this past weekend was reported to be the last warm weekend in the country, with today marking the arrival of the much dreaded winters in this strange, charming little island, now decades past its glory. I woke up more restful than usual, but I feel somewhat lazy still - the kind of laziness that’s characteristic of cold/warm days much like this one. I roll around in my blanket, read a page or two of the book that put me to sleep last night, and fall asleep again.
I wake up after another hour has passed and find the sunlight to be even brighter than before, and while staring at the ceiling as one often does, I notice the lack of any character whatsoever over there. What’s this colour? Eggshell? Mint? Off-white? Cream? What are colours? What’s going on? I cannot tell. The sunlight’s only made the problem worse. The more I stare, the more I find in myself a deep yearning for my childhood days when I could still yearn for things in an innocent way (compared to my more anxious ways now, as an adult). I end up thinking about our wobbly brown Orient fan hanging over the ceiling in the room I had spent most of my childhood in. Its stem, as I remember it now, met the concentric patterns shaped out of cement through careful handiwork, and while the pattern’s intended effect was to add a royal charm to our otherwise pedestrian house, in actuality it only contracted cracks and cobwebs and so radiated about as much royalty as a park bench does. It did add character to it, however. That whole kintsugi thing. I think about that fan for a while and how it would look on my current ceiling. I form no opinions. And so eventually with the sun, the onset of winter, and this perfect ceiling hanging over my head, I end up thinking about Delhi. About winters in Delhi specifically, and about the weeks that led up to Diwali.
When I was younger and my mental oddities were only prototypical, Delhi as I remember it was reflective of my own internal state. Neither burdened by the heavy pollution and smog cover, nor awaiting another sociopolitical disaster right around the corner, the city was somewhat predictable. It ran through its cycle of seasons like clockwork. I always knew that right around my birthday I would be doubling up my layers, for example. Summers were harsh and dry, and the dreadful heatwaves of May and June that forced the schools shut would soon be followed by abundant monsoons. There may have been the occasional acid rain or two, but of course I was young enough to not care much about them anyway. I was only excited about climbing our rooftop with my siblings and cousins and wait for the dark, sinister clouds to start their ceaseless shower. The monsoons would then slowly retreat and pave way for the onset of winters, which were, for the lack of a better word, rosy. Which the word both fits my memory of it and adds the adjective one should always use when going on a nostalgia trip like I’m about to now. So then, rosy: a slow cradling into the bitter temperatures that were about to follow.
Another trait of mine that I found reflected in the city of my childhood back then was the lack of any fixed identity. Delhi’s been annexed, pillaged, destroyed, rebuilt pretty much consistently over the past few centuries. It’s reflected in the city’s vernacular Hindi: a mishmash of English, Punjabi, and Urdu, written in a Devanagari script. Reading a ton of Hindi literature growing up offered diverse historical contexts to explore: from the whimsical kabootarbazi commonplace in East Delhi to the occasional Gurudwara Nanak Piao processions with my nanaji. The idea of a single cultural symbol is still alien to me - I remember being pleasantly surprised upon discovering the sheer devotion Mumbaikars hold towards Shivaji. Delhi didn’t offer any such shared nexus1. Perhaps growing up in a city as malleable, mixed with my particular childhood circumstances, has taught me now in adulthood to hold beliefs and opinions and whatnots as loosely as possible. And never sacred, lest they become dogma. Delhi, always evolving, going through an endless spiritual metamorphosis since time immemorial, too held nothing sacred back then: except maybe our hearts warming up to prepare for the coming winters.
The sun, abundant today, reminds me also of all that I’ve left behind in that city. A lot of it that’s no longer there, which is perhaps why I left in the first place. The sunlight has sent me in this restful torpor and I decide to devote my Sunday fleshing out this Proustian moment. I remember waking up and looking forward to my textbooks in those winters, a telltale sign that I was broken even as a kid - a sociopath in the making. In my defence, there wasn’t much to look forward to in East Delhi during winters anyway. I hated riding my bicycle in my ugly itchy sweater, so this was my only option. Well, I didn’t hate riding my bicycle - I just wasn’t confident enough on it. I was 10 years old, and was more often than not anxious about not braking at the right moment and hitting some unsuspecting aunty on her way back from her daily grocery shopping. Or running over some lost puppy, or crash into a group of old geezers collected in a clique, chewing tobacco in rhythmic facial movements and smoking beedis with about as much care for their surroundings as the stray cow or two had for our collective hygiene. It was a busy, charming dump, our corner of East Delhi, and as a kid I was too scared to disturb its chaotic routine with my creaky BSA bicycle. Books were safe, books were my refuge: I couldn’t hurt them, and they couldn’t hurt me back, unless of course I had stumbled upon the final exercise of the chapter on fractions. My restfulness today in London is not dissimilar from my mornings back then, when sunlight could actually sieve in abundance from the clouds, and would hit my sensitive eyes just right through the broken windows in my room.
My mother, who’s always led a curious existence, was energetic on those days. She would carry her three boys - me and my two brothers - to the rooftop nearly immediately. I think she was afraid that we’d lose the sun. Once at the rooftop, she’d unfold the manji2, and set three chairs aside for us to sit on and read our textbooks and prepare for the coming exams. Only I enjoyed this activity. She’d also bring along with her a basket of oranges and a bag of moongfali. We’d each receive an orange, which were often sour (just our luck), and some peanuts in our respective bowls, carefully measured by mom to ensure she didn’t come off partial. I’m certain my younger brother always received more. I would bury myself in my books promptly afterwards, my elder brother would hook his gaze at the last few kites flying in the sky, and my younger brother would immediately fall asleep under the abundant sun. Upon finishing her oranges then my mother would start at the remainder of the peanuts, with her sweater catching all the broken shells, a sight I always found funny, and still do. This one day I was unfortunate enough to be the recipient of the only sour orange among us four, which consequently put me in a sour mood. I ended up throwing a tiny tantrum. The day prior I had lost my favourite little Hot Wheels car to the gutter, and hadn’t yet reached catharsis for my loss. I started crying at the orange and threw it back in my mother’s bowl, who then sat me down and taught me with patience only characteristic of mothers on their good days to appreciate things, to bask in the sunlight, to appreciate oranges sour or otherwise, and peanuts toasted or raw. That one day I’ll perhaps grow to appreciate that even sour oranges carry with them their own charm, that contrast and character coexist - often in unison - and I should feel grateful regardless. Maybe my mother should’ve just given me some money to buy some orange candies from the nearby shop instead of dumping this clearly misplaced and mistimed platitude that I was too young and too immature to understand, but I somehow still remember it and feel glad that I do. In London things are more or less perfect - jaffa oranges are always sweet and monkeynuts are perfectly toasted. Which is maybe why I just put them in the bag during my grocery runs without paying any attention to them at all. It takes away the pleasure of cracking open that perfect peanut with that perfect fruit after having sifted through tens of bitter, bad peanuts. Or finding that perfectly sweet wedge in that one inconspicuous orange. The journey leading up to the perfect reward. Or the journey being its own reward. Whatever wise people say, that.
I have since gotten out of my bed, which has proven to be a Herculean task. My bed on such days exhibits nearly infinite gravitational force, and so getting out of it and getting ready takes nearly forever. I’ve decided however that I cannot waste this rare sunny day marking the arrival of harsh winters, so I shower and get ready to go on a walk alongside the quay near my place. I carry some books and a notebook with myself to put down some thoughts - days like these have a set precedent for me, poetry comes out on days like these. Shitty, terrible poetry that I’m usually too afraid to publish or show to people whom I’ve written something on or for, but that brings a teeny-tiny sense of contentment to my heart otherwise. I start reflecting on my mornings back in Delhi again, about how things change and yet remain the same, about how carrying some books in this messenger bag slung slightly short across my right shoulder I’ve both grown and not. Back then I was a shy, timorous kid. Highly introverted and engaged in internal dilemmas, not at all perturbed by what was going on outside, what my brothers or cousins or friends were up to, or what new TV show my mother and aunties were raving about. I was often too absorbed in my own curiosities, without a care for some party or some event elsewhere that I was missing out on.
I doubt I’ve changed that much since.
It’s already an hour past noon, and so the sun cannot really pour through the lifeless towers of Canary Wharf. I must chase it. I try to inch from desk to desk, from block to block, from shop to shop, to absorb as much of this meandering sun as possible. I think I forgot to put any sun block. Eh, who cares. When I finally find a spot where I’m assured that the sun would hang around for maybe an hour more I’m dejected upon finding that there’s no bench in sight. And so I stand alongside the railing and stare at the swans. This particular brown one who’s drifted away has caught my eye, standing out against other beautiful white swans in the distance. I follow it trailing along, burying its head under the water every now and then, staring directly at me whenever it pops out. I smile back at it, and smile to myself. And then I’m taken aback to when the sun would start descending in Delhi and the winds would grow colder and heavier. Mother would then command us to go back downstairs promptly, her stern voice betraying the difficulties of raising three difficult boys, all varieties and verities of traits, all over the place. She’d then start cooking up some winter delicacy. Some days it would be aloo gajar matar, some other days it would be baingan ka bharta. On rare occasions when our grandmother was over and she wasn’t totally annoyed by her presence she would make sarson ka saag, and since I never was one for makke ki roti, she’d make plain phulkas for me on a separate stove top. My luckiest days however were spent wolfing through phulkas with aloo methi, which I still have an on/off3 love affair with. My love for bitter, green vegetables was an early sign of weirdness, according to my mother. I think my father was weirder. He would always bring out his winter wares early. Around this time he was often in his track suit and his comically conical winter cap, with what can only be described as a huge mountain top growing out of his head. In adulthood now I feel glad that I haven’t inherited either my father’s sense of fashion, nor his susceptibility to cold weathers. London would have been a bitch otherwise.
The sun is now departing and I must let it go. So I step away from the railing and start making my way back home, but stop at a nearby Tesco to get some mocha from the automated Costa machine. I find myself intrigued by the winter varieties on offer, and decide to instead get a caramel hot chocolate. I pour in two sachets of sugar and sprinkle unhealthy amounts of chocolate dust - “I’ll burn it off at the gym, and not everyone has to be in shape anyway”, I say to myself. I pack my cup, pay for it, decide to buy a pack of cigarettes and start the walk home. I’m hoping this tastes nice. I don’t like caramel as much, but someone I had unintentionally and unexpectedly developed a crush on last year told me that I should try things, so I figured why the fuck not. My first sip proves that one should indeed try things. This is lovely, oh this is so lovely. I take a cigarette out and instead of going home decide to stop by the quay again and finish my cigarette. I’m now reminded of how nights were during Delhi winters. A hot cup of Milo back then meant the world to us three boys during winter nights - till it did not, because they had suddenly stopped selling Milo altogether. The ads stopped and my cousins also reported that they couldn’t really get it anymore, which broke our collective hearts. Thankfully Cadbury had by then started selling Bournvita, which was of course 99% sugar marketed as a health drink - as most health drinks often are. Milk consumption still remains a strong tradition in our household, and although I’ve reduced my lactase consumption in adulthood, I still fondly remember those concoctions of hot milk, sugar, and chocolate that would without fail put me out of the most despairing moods4. Especially if I knew I’m going to bury myself in a warm blanket afterwards, like I will once I reach home. Bournvita substituted as a good dessert for us brothers back then, and was perhaps easier on our parents who were shouldering a million responsibilities together - taking care of, apart from us three boys, five other fully grown and inexplicably immature adults. We weren’t too fussy about this - we loved the drink anyway, but on days when things were better and the house wasn’t on fire, our parents would conspire together to make some gajar ka halwa for just the three of us. Too afraid now to risk ridicule by my mother should I ask for her recipe, I often scour through YouTube for simpler ones, and not finding any for my lazy and otherwise defeated self to cook up, I get frozen halwa from some nearby Asda and heat it up in the microwave. I’m in full awareness that my actions constitute a warcrime, but having been away from home for nearly eight years now, little warcrimes help. All I hope for is forgiveness.
I reached home an hour ago and have since French pressed myself some coffee. I decide to pour it later and take another cigarette out while leaning against my room’s window, my hands dangling outside. The view isn’t particularly great, I live on the second floor so there’s no skyline to look at. In front of me instead are huge towers so I can’t even look in the distance and put up a pretence of depth, of maturity. In less than a month I’ll be leaving for Delhi again, as I do every year around this time. Back to those winters I had once loved so much that I’ve now wasted an entire day just reminiscing about them, writing about them. Going back to that city to both participate and prepare - participate in celebrations, of my loved ones who will so glamorously announce a new beginning of their adult lives, and to prepare for the million questions and half a million snide remarks concerning my single-hood. And the inevitable pressures resulting from the same. But I hope between the celebrations and criticisms I can find some time to enjoy my city, my home. To sit around winter bonfires with some friends and both celebrate our wins and share our collective losses this year, these old friendships of mine that have sustained time and tides. And then to maybe spend some quality time with my parents. Sometime earlier this year in a discussion with a coworker I had a moment of clarity where I realised that I have lost a ton of time in the last few years trying to get my parents to “know” me - the real “me”. That they are getting older and I think I will regret not simply spending more time with them without forcing the issue of them not knowing who the fuck I really am internally, a self that’s anyway a work in progress. My old mother, who’s underwent a major surgery this month and is now recuperating, thankfully still has her funny bone intact, and I hope to participate in some of her off-beat humour. And then there’s my father - typically stoic, typically suppressive - who I’ll probably go on long walks with, with most of our conversations eventually reducing to ego battles by the time we return home. I feel relaxed that those battles won’t be held with my brothers, however. My constants: us three siblings who despise and love each other in ways only siblings can. I guess the three of us have come to terms with the fact that we’re adult adults, and not young adults anymore. Which is a scary, funny sort of realisation, that we’ll probably ponder over some nice whiskey.
Those are all my little hopes.
What I most certainly will do is spend my time eating, eating everything, even my mother’s less appetising dishes (which are very few I should add, God bless her) along with phulkas with aloo methi. I’ll definitely discuss some pointless politics with my dad, who doesn’t listen to me anyway (and so, God bless him as well, because what the fuck do I know?). My old, grumpy dog still remembers me and welcomes me with pure happiness and joy and a million furious tail-wags, so I’ll at least give him a pet or two (or tons). Talking shit with some old friends from school and college around Connaught Place late at night while fielding a million calls from my parents to be home as quickly as possible is my absolute favourite pasttime, which shall be conducted as intended. Post that, adventures with some other close friends scattered throughout the subcontinent over some nice beers and nicer sunsets should hopefully work out as planned. And then I’ll take my old motorcycle out for some reflective trips across Gurgaon highways in early morning, and muse about all that makes this dirty, broken, polluted and yet charming city the one that I love so deeply, so that this next January I can come back to London, to this city that I’m trying to love. This will be my time to rest and recuperate before I mount the challenges of the coming year, with hopefully more writing, more music, more engineering, and more adventures with friendship, love, and loss.
I should probably pour that coffee now.