Words in Winter

It's already the fifth day of the year. Time sure flies. With it, the seasons come and go. This winter I have eaten guavas straight off their tree after plucking them myself (with the help of a clever little contraption affixed at the end of a long stick), washed my hands in a gurgling stream of a river (and picked two smooth, golden stones from its waters to keep), warmed my hands by an old chimney place and marvelled at the orange being so perfectly packaged.

Another day on a sunny morning I lit a candle on my grandmother's grave and said a prayer on the seventh year of her passing. The air was crisp but the sun warmed us on that mound, and I stood there, the earth quiet beneath my feet, the hundreds of grave stones lying still under the vast blue of the sky. The same morning while rummaging through bundles of old clothes, i found a tiny dress of a baby not more than a month old. It turned out to be one that my other grandma had made for me, a little before my birth. What a veritable gem this find was. I cannot believe I was ever that small. My grandma passed away soon after my birth, and I don't remember her at all. But I will treasure that faded little flower-printed dress, sewed by her own hands.

I have earned callused fingers from irregular bursts of enthusiasm where I sit immersed in the guitar, with fickle chords on the monitor. My fingers also pay the price of the otherwise engaging occupation of knitting, since I am a novice, and so the needles do not easily slip off the yarn but require repeated, painful cajoling by stiff fingers. But aforementioned chimneys, chulas, heaters and blowers are a blessing for this season. As regards the guitar, it remains to be seen how often I encounter those bursts of enthusiasm in future, and as for the knitting, I strangely find myself knitting a sickly pink scarf, the colour not being my choice and me not having any choice but accepting it. And also, one ball of sickly pink wool without my knowledge apparently rolled down the slope leading down from our front gate, and ball of wool settled itself way down the end, leaving a trail of pink behind. I was indisposed when this happened and was surprised to be presented with a dirty pink ball in the evening. I blame the dog, who must have played with the wool which I had left in the front yard. (Because I had also been sitting in the front yard earlier taking in the sun, and had forgotten to take the work in.) Pest of a dog.

When I had unearthed the little dress from the cupboard, I also found my mother's wedding veil in it. Fragile and faded, it was still beautiful. Of course, I promptly ruffled one end of it and put it on my head, dashed to the mirror to see what it looked like there. Ahs and sighs. And sighs. It is also wedding season out here- people marrying almost every day. I heard recently of a fairy-tale match that almost made me cry (not really though), but it was perfect. I went to another wedding nearby, and witnessed madhappy, energetic dancing- an offshoot not just of the wedding but the overall festivity in the air, in the month and season. The couple there was young and sweet-looking; on being asked to dance while a song was being performed for them, the groom turned to one side instead of towards his bride and did a funny little jig, realised his mistake and with a wide grin, turned to her and began dancing. By the end she looked flustered, but happy. Weddings.

I welcomed Christmas and the New Year, went to church and took joy in the music, all around; rediscovered the tranquility and beauty of hymn, and found peace in prayer. The city partied on New Year, and I remembered the boys the pastor had mentioned, sleeping on winter nights on the roofs of public toilets in Police Bazaar, eating scraps thrown from hotel kitchens for their breakfast. A six year old urchin called to the church for food on Christmas had reeked of nothing but dendrite, which was what he had sniffed the whole of the previous day. In my warm bed at night I cannot imagine their plight. And I have never thought I could do anything about it. It's troubling. But knowing about them infinitely makes me think about my moments of unnecessary expenses and the like. Giving is so easy, yet so difficult. Prayer can make a difference, but it perhaps need channels and routes. I don't feel I've been enough of a channel.

In my bed at night also many thoughts roll around in my mind. Life and love, the future, work, happiness, friends and family, God. Moments of pondering never yield answers, but in the day-to-day I live, and in the richness of experience, I think I learn. And in many things can warmth be found in the winter, even in something as simple as a little cotton dress, smelling of old age and musty cupboards.