I
love this nip around the air when the winter begins to announce its
arrival. I also miss the winters spent in Giridih and Durgapur. When I
think about the winters in Durgapur, I become nostalgic about my
childhood and my mother's cooking. The very dishes which she cooked then
made us frown and cut sorry faces but now we can only imagine the
aromas and stay elated the rest of the day. I will reminisce the
Durgapur winters some other day as today my heart is going back to
Giridih.
The city...maybe we should better call it a small town became a sleepy head by 9 PM every winter day with the chilly air and the evening azaans ruling over. The mornings would begin from 4 AM with the early morning azaan. I loved to wake up to hear this particular azaan and had set up my clock alarm accordingly. Neither I am a religious person nor I am an expert in Arabic but I could relate to the mesmerizing voice of the person who called out the azaan during this time every day. I felt that the person was actually calling out to the God he believed, in the same way we told our dear ones to come and stay with us. By the time the azaan finished, I would be holding my tea mug and thinking about the day that lay ahead.
The days when I was a student in a B.Ed college in Giridih and spending study leaves, my winter days would often go experimenting different dishes on my new induction oven. The winter lunches which I made only for myself were mostly risottos and stews to be eaten while I watched the Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes series. The dinners would be lavish, very north Indian or very Chinese. We had everything ranging from Rajma Chawal to the Chholes to the Mixed Chowmeins to the Chilly Chickens. The sundays would be strictly reserved for Pulaos and Chicken. The chicken which I detest now was a delicacy then as the assorted vegetables which were available in the winter months gave us less opportunity to become non vegetarians with chickens and eggs. Fishes were a rare visitor in our Giridih house as the fresh ones were not easily available.
The winter evenings were spent on coffee mugs, the hand made, indigenous espressos and the seasons of 'The Big Bang Theory'. When the lights went out, we would play around with the waxes of the thick candles discussing on philosphies, life, travels, perspectives and the people of Giridih. Yes, we discussed on Giridih people because their compositions were very new to us. They appeared unwelcoming and welcoming at the same time. We tried to match our exposures and education with them, but gave away eventually and embraced the proverbial saying 'Ignorance is bliss'.
I have forgotten the people who appeared unwelcoming. What I remember now are the winters, the food experiments, the colourful vegetable markets where the tribal people would come to sell their crops, some friendships we made with some unforgettable, humble and gentle people and the morning azaan. I have seen ridiculous caste discriminations and heard about the dowry categories there in Giridih, but what I still carry in my mind is an imaginary image of the chilly Giridih mornings, the person calling out a welcome to his God and I standing still in my balcony with a piping hot tea mug in my hands.
The city...maybe we should better call it a small town became a sleepy head by 9 PM every winter day with the chilly air and the evening azaans ruling over. The mornings would begin from 4 AM with the early morning azaan. I loved to wake up to hear this particular azaan and had set up my clock alarm accordingly. Neither I am a religious person nor I am an expert in Arabic but I could relate to the mesmerizing voice of the person who called out the azaan during this time every day. I felt that the person was actually calling out to the God he believed, in the same way we told our dear ones to come and stay with us. By the time the azaan finished, I would be holding my tea mug and thinking about the day that lay ahead.
The days when I was a student in a B.Ed college in Giridih and spending study leaves, my winter days would often go experimenting different dishes on my new induction oven. The winter lunches which I made only for myself were mostly risottos and stews to be eaten while I watched the Jeremy Brett's Sherlock Holmes series. The dinners would be lavish, very north Indian or very Chinese. We had everything ranging from Rajma Chawal to the Chholes to the Mixed Chowmeins to the Chilly Chickens. The sundays would be strictly reserved for Pulaos and Chicken. The chicken which I detest now was a delicacy then as the assorted vegetables which were available in the winter months gave us less opportunity to become non vegetarians with chickens and eggs. Fishes were a rare visitor in our Giridih house as the fresh ones were not easily available.
The winter evenings were spent on coffee mugs, the hand made, indigenous espressos and the seasons of 'The Big Bang Theory'. When the lights went out, we would play around with the waxes of the thick candles discussing on philosphies, life, travels, perspectives and the people of Giridih. Yes, we discussed on Giridih people because their compositions were very new to us. They appeared unwelcoming and welcoming at the same time. We tried to match our exposures and education with them, but gave away eventually and embraced the proverbial saying 'Ignorance is bliss'.
I have forgotten the people who appeared unwelcoming. What I remember now are the winters, the food experiments, the colourful vegetable markets where the tribal people would come to sell their crops, some friendships we made with some unforgettable, humble and gentle people and the morning azaan. I have seen ridiculous caste discriminations and heard about the dowry categories there in Giridih, but what I still carry in my mind is an imaginary image of the chilly Giridih mornings, the person calling out a welcome to his God and I standing still in my balcony with a piping hot tea mug in my hands.
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