Winters in Bhopal

Winter mornings in Bhopal have for years exuded a certain charm and thinking about them always makes me want to pack my woollens and head home. Memories of chilly mornings dawning upon the city and a bright sun fighting valiantly to keep earthlings energetic and happy are as fresh in my mind as just-baked bread. With a slight nudge I am transported back in time and space to a city I call home. I see people huddling together in small groups on the sidewalk, thawing their frozen bodies on weak sigris, sipping tea from small conical glass tumblers and allowing the deliciously warm steam rising from the tumblers to turn their noses pink and fog their glasses. I can smell the enticing aromas of freshly fried crisp jalebis and the smoky fragrance of dying coal embers which burned all night long.

**

As the sun pours its warmth on my face, I find myself sitting in the balcony listening to the sounds of temple bells. They chime to the tunes of early morning bhajans and are interspersed with the cawing of crows and I wonder silently if God appreciates the garish wake-up alarm that we humans subject him to day after day. Sounds of clanging utensils emanate from houses in our vicinity, suggesting the commencement of early morning rituals like pouring tea into cups and fixing breakfast.

**

Papa and I, dressed in our walking gear, head out for our routine six km walk. We walk past a string of green parks brimming with people like us who want to start the day on a healthy note, footwear stacked outside a yoga school implying that yoga enthusiasts are hard at work, a deserted swimming pool and an old petrol pump opening up for another day’s business. Glasses of unsweetened carrot juice are our incentive as we finish half the circuit. Downing the refreshing juice, we head back, never forgetting to drop 10 rupee notes in the tin bowls of old beggars who wait expectantly within the premises of an old Hanuman temple.

**

Breakfast awaits us as we walk into the familiar warmth of our house. I tuck into a bowl of oatmeal, sprinkled generously with almonds, walnuts and raisins while Papa devours two slices of buttered toast with a golden one-egg omelet. We share a rather large bowl of sliced apples and peeled oranges. Done with breakfast, we move over to the living room where Papa meticulously goes through both the English and the Hindi newspapers with a fine toothed comb and I languidly stretch out on the couch, floating blissfully in a state of limbo between being asleep and being awake.

**

The Ashok trees cordoning our house stand tall, their narrow leaves rustling softly in the light winter breeze. Bharti, the vivacious  girl who helps Ma in the kitchen, walks in as the clock strikes eight. With a large grin cutting across her impish face, she makes my parents proud by loudly wishing me ‘Good Morning Didi’. The first cries of the fruit and vegetable vendors waft through the window as they push their rickety carts laden with farm fresh produce along the tapered bylanes of Rachna Nagar.

**

Ma wants me to get the soles of my pretty silver chappals fixed at the local cobbler’s shop and I pull myself together to make the short trip down the road. Crouching under a large mango tree, the old cobbler works feverishly at a pair of gold jootis. As I approach him, he immediately recognises me and beams toothlessly. I am and will always remain ‘333 waale Colonel sahab’s’ daughter to him. This is somehow a supremely comforting thought because no matter how my life changes, there will always be an old man under a mango tree in Bhopal who will recognize me as my parents’ daughter, not someone’s wife or someone’s daughter-in-law.

**

No amount of pretty white snow, chic winter wear or heady coffee in the US can beat the pleasure of a beautiful winter morning with family in Bhopal. Images of the soothing humdrum of life back home are easy to conjure, I just have to close my eyes and dream on.

**

Preeti Sharma is an MBA from Symbiosis Institute of Management Studies and dabbles with creative writing. As she stepped into the hectic and mundane routine of corporate life, her writing became her  stress buster. Her insatiable wanderlust and need for change prompt her to travel as much as possible.