Winter In Goa.

          It’s generally assumed by fellow Sangoldkars that the Man and I are eccentric. We rise pre-dawn to water the plants, a job generally left to the Maker who cares for all creatures big, small and Goan, who has stretched the monsoons over four months and then provided heavy dew for another four, so farmers and plant lovers need to work for approximately a third of the year. Amen.

          One neighbour politely wishes me good morning through chattering teeth, head covered by an acrylic-wool shawl, upper limbs enveloped in two layers of husband’s long-sleeved shirts, brand new canvas shoes firmly on socked (sic, but that’s how we talk hereabouts) feet.  Her hands are folded, fingers tucked into elbow folds. “Bai,” she says by way of conversation. “Cold, no?”

          I’m busy bending, stretching, untangling a kink out of that stiff plastic pipe. Yes, I tell her.

The poder comes along, ‘monkey-cap’ protecting his head from frost and chill. She feels sorry for him and reflects a second “Cold, no?” towards me.

          I stupidly decide to educate her about the temperatures in the Himalayas, Kashmir, the North-East, even neighbouring Belgaum. Blank stare. I tell her about snow. She has her aha moment: she’s seen snow. Her cousin from Canada had come via New York once, bought her a transparent globe with a ‘Statue of Liberty’ inside it, floating in clear fluid. When the globe was shaken, a white substance floated to the statue’s head, and slowly floated to its feet. “Snow,” said my true-blue Goan friend. “I have it in my show-case.”

          I tell her about the extreme conditions our soldiers live in, in Siachen. She tells me how her arthritis improves with a khare udak  dip in the Baga waters in late February. “Our bhangrachey golden soil, the water, all have the most therapeutic effect on these things. The cold-cold waters of the sea at this time of the year make miracles, haan.”

          I decide to educate her. I tell her that the ground is so cold that the soft snow hardens into ice. I know, her eyes tell me; her lips say: “Ice? In my freezer, lots of cubes, but they give us sore throats, so we don’t use them.” Then she added: “But you won’t fall sick, don’t worry, this early morning oxygen is good for health.” Her yoga teacher said so. I begin a debate. What’s wrong with me? Inhalation of early-morning ozone must have created that idiocy. If ozone inhalation for a couple of days can give rise to such idiocy, can you imagine what happens to people who’ve lived here all their lives?

          Anyways, I open my mouth to convince her that there are places colder than Goa. She quickly goes into her house and triumphantly waves a newspaper at me. A headline says something about ‘coldest night in five years’. I shut up.

          I recall a debate with another Goan about use of geysers in the bathrooms and wearing (artificial) leather jackets on motorcycles so that you don’t get the sniffles, sore throat, joint pain, headaches, fever, the runs, etc. That’s not all. Hot milk with sugar and haldi is consumed first thing in the morning, last thing at night. I guess the nausea it gives rise to makes you forget all discomfort due to 17 degrees Celsius. The ladoos made of sesame seeds and jaggery will be made around the festival of sankrant to keep the chill away. (What I like about sankrant are the words accompanying the distribution of the ladoos. In almost literal translation: have these ladoos, speak sweetly to me, don’t fight with me, ever.)  

          Whilst wrapping myself up at bed-time, good Goan that I am, I remember that my offspring brought for me a pair of pretty woollen ‘Santa-shoes’, with white bobs at the ends of the laces, ankle-length and leather-soled. I wear them through the night. My south-west-coast blood is warm and any temperature in the teens reminds me ‘it’s winter’.

          Whichever part of the world you belong to: the cold northern hemisphere or the sunny southern one, happy 2014 everybody.

Winter In Goa.

          My New Year memories are of thick woollen coats, prickly inner garments, warm shawls, and painful toes and fingers. I have lived much of my adult life in North India, where temperatures hover in single digits at this time of the year.  I couldn’t have survived without the tent-like ‘pherans’ in Kashmir, inside which I hugged both son and ‘kangdi’ together. The latter is a ‘matka’ housed in a cane basket. Inside the ‘kandgi’ are kept live, glowing coals, quite dangerous to hold against skin and kid, can and do cause blisters, fires and cancer (I’m told, when used over long years). But for me, ignorance was bliss. The heat it generated was more bliss.

Words like ‘razai’ and ‘bukhari’ make no sense in Goa. The former my aunt used as a mattress. The latter I’d left behind for the next tenant in the house I lived in. Sri Husband’s nomadic job made us set up home in several remote corners of India. Our weekly ration of an approximately 20 kg chunk of coal was dragged over the quarter kilometre ‘kacchaa’ lane that led to our house from the main road. By candle-light (the voltage, whenever we had ‘current’, hovered around 40 watts), we hammered it into manageable pieces to feed the ‘bukhari’. Sometimes we injured our fingers.

Winter thoughts: our soldiers at the border live (and sometimes die) in extreme discomfort so we can enjoy our parties, crib about the government, do our own thing.

          Winter memories: carts loaded with juicy crimson carrots, fresh peas, cauliflowers the size of my head, so much home-grown spinach that neighbours who grew it in their yards gifted away big bunches to passers-by. Mounds of tomatoes. Cracked heels, cracked lips, steaming adrak-ki-chai, women clerks in offices speedily knitting something instead of putting fingers to keyboard. Fog.

Goan winter: one neighbour politely wishes me good morning through chattering teeth, head covered by an acrylic-wool shawl, upper limbs enveloped in two layers of husband’s long-sleeved shirts, brand new canvas shoes, ‘socked’ (accurate Goan term) feet. Fingers tucked into folded elbow.

“Bai,” she says, “Cold, no?”

          I nod, whilst I untangle a kink out of a stiff plastic pipe.

The poder comes along, ‘monkey-cap’ on head.

Neighbour reflects a second “Cold, no?” towards me.

          I stupidly decide to educate her about the temperatures in the Himalayas, Kashmir, the North-East, even neighbouring Belgaum.        

Blank stare.

          I tell her about snow. She has her aha moment. Her cousin from Canada had come via New York once, bought her a transparent globe with a ‘Statue of Liberty’ inside it, floating in clear fluid. When shaken, a white substance floated to the statue’s head, and slowly floated to its feet. “Snow,” proclaims this true-blue Goan. “I have it in my show-case.”

          I tell her about the extreme conditions our soldiers live in, in Siachen.

She tells me her arthritis improves with a ‘khare udak’  dip in the Baga waters in late February. “Our ‘bhangrachey’ soil and the cold-cold waters of the sea at this time of the year make miracles, haan.”

          I don’t give up: “The Himalaya is so cold that the soft snow on the ground hardens into ice.”

I know, her eyes tell me; she says: “Ice? Lots in my freezer. We don’t use it because of sore-throat-problem.” Then adds: “But you won’t fall sick, this early morning oxygen is good for health.” Her yoga teacher said so.

I try again: “There are places colder than Goa.” (What is wrong with me?) She quickly gets and triumphantly waves a newspaper at me. A headline says something about ‘coldest night’ hereabouts. I shut up.

          I recall bygone debates about non-use of geysers in bathrooms and wearing (artificial) leather jackets on motorcycles so that you didn’t get the sniffles, joint pain, headaches, fever, the runs, etc. Another trick: Hot milk with sugar and haldi consumed first thing in the morning, last thing at night. I guess the nausea it gives rise to makes you forget all discomfort below 3 degrees Celsius.

          I shut the windows at bed-time and wrap myself at bedtime. I remember I own a pair of woollen, ankle-length and leather-soled ‘Santa-shoes’, with white bobs at the ends of the laces. I wear them. My south-west-coast blood is warm. Any temperature in the teens reminds me ‘it’s winter’.

          Whichever part of the world you belong to: the cold northern hemisphere or the sunny southern one, Happy 2015 everybody. Belated doesn’t matter, does it?

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