Winter was merely notional until I left my hometown. It was like a fleeting dream existing only in the wee hours. Afterwards winter became a season when three months in a semester were wrapped in sweaters and other woollen clothes. But I had yet to see the magic of snow. My first glimpses of snow were of the white peaks of Kanchenjunga seen at a distance from a wintry Darjeeling. Perhaps that was my first real winter where the sun refused to stay later than even a minute necessary after 4:30 pm or so. It was the first time I had to use a room heater and also the first time I looked forward to the fire being lit in a room; its crackling echoing in the silences of the night. Compared to that, winters in Hyderabad and Mumbai were not very wintry.
Sometime later, I happened to visit the Netherlands smack in the middle of winter. I was excited at first because I thought finally I could see some snow. But I was told not to get my hopes up on that front and that snow was not a usual occurrence in South Holland. Most of the days were drab and rainy grey. But I managed to find joy in reading Katherine Arden’s The bear and the nightingale. I was so enamoured by the descriptions of the first snow and the beautiful Russian village in the fringes of the forest that was home to many magical beings. As I read on, the temperatures dropped and I was distracted by strong pelting sounds coming from outside. That was the first time I was seeing hailstones; something I had only heard in a famous song in a fantasy Malayalam movie. They were the size of small beads.
That night I slept dreaming of snow. In my dream, I was asleep inside a white tent, at the fringes of a forest, and snow was falling around me. It was so beautiful. Then I woke up and I looked outside my window and I saw that it was snowing outside. And it continued to snow the whole day. I kept watching as it fell. Melting in my hands, the tip of my nose, and my tongue. The transition of the landscape was enchanting. The whole place was in a swirl of snow that cascaded down like dancing dervishes; a scene straight out of a fairy tale. That was my first snow and I will never forget it - not the snow and not the dream.
Also, the transition from summer to winter never fails to mesmerise me. The days tend to get shorter, shadows get longer, the trees that dot the walking paths change the colours of their leaves and eventually shed all of them. Then the trees look like corpses. Nature looks drained of life. Colours bleeding out of everything and from everywhere. I look outside my window and see the tree which looks like a giant twig. But now I know that I just have to wait it out. Soon, I will hear the buzz of bees and the flutter of finches. There will be the first buds which will then turn into full bloom.
After several winters later, I have come to love the winters here. The warm Christmas lights and mulled wine and the hot soups are some of the things that I cherish. The Christmas markets are magical as always. Curling under the blanket with the heater on with a cosy read as Susan Reyland says in Magpie murders is a delicious experience. Something only winter can offer. For someone who watched Iceage and Frozen in a sweltering and humid tropical land, these things are exotic. The definition definitely changes depending on which part of the world you are from. I found out for myself that there is such a thing as ‘winter reads’ and that it was not something made up. Agreed, January and February are not so nice, especially since the Christmas lights are all taken down and everything is dark like the shadows lurking in ghost stories. Still, I look forward to the promise of a blanket of snow which usually comes in February and that keeps me going. And ever since reading The Toymakers, I keep looking for the first snowdrops to bloom. It is always such a joy when you find the first blooms tucked among the grassy green (although that’s not quite how the protagonists of The Toymakers felt- but in reality, one can only take so much of cold). Then I know that spring is just around the corner.