Winter came at 20. Nutanpally with much fanfare. Father busied himself all day with preparing the soil for rose beds and winter flowers, namely chrysanthemum, marigold, sunflower and periwinkle. As father worked, butterflies kept flitting about in red rangons. Chocolate coloured wings streaked with white and red made themselves ravishing over luscious red rangon stalks.
Morning tiptoed to noon. Noon had its own sights and sounds. Bathrooms came alive with crooning of bathroom-singers, water falling from taps on buckets making a lively background. Chilies were slit open in kitchens with a practised drag of khunti over their slightly bloated bodies in a kodai of musur dal; seeds floating around as the dal bubbling around all over kodai. A sizzling aroma wafted out.
Traffic was getting less on the road. Hawkers took over.
‘Joynagorer moya’, ‘Joynagorer moya’ – hawked a middle-aged man as he did every winter. Bathroom singing took a back-seat. Dal was left to simmer on gas oven. Home-makers were out in their verandas to call out ‘O Joynagorer moya…. O Joynagorer moya’. The hawker ambled across road door to door with his own fares of ‘moya’ – a type of sweetmeats made of chira having a distinct smell, a tad artificial, supposedly made in far-away hamlets of Joynagor of south 24-pargonas.
I went to roof with a spool in hand and kites. Sky was the place I roamed around with white kite (I prefer it, still!). Other kites threw a challenge as they dashed aggressively towards my kite. I avoided them. I made it a point already. I flew out white. A declared pacifist. Others could be war-mongers. I did not care.
Afternoon came when father took his music classes coming back from school. Harmonium was billowing. Tabla was playing in six beats. Female students followed father as he sang out “Elo je sheeter bela barosh pare… .” Yes, languorous winter day had arrived after a long wait of a year.
In the evening, we played badminton in our garden. I paired up with father, my elder brother with mother. From the two bamboo poles on either side of red net, lights were lit. ‘Love all’ – my father would say as he struck the feather with his old wooden racquet. Game started. Fate shuttled from one side to the other in course of the match. Most of the time, the game extended to the fifth set. The winners jumped in joy; the losers folded up net with a forced attention.
Dinner we took after the game. It was as simple as it could get. Rooti, a slight wet substantive piece of patali gur (another winter relish) and payesh of newly-cut rice mixed with dates jaggery, cooked in milk. The lingering sweet melted away the bitter of badminton rallies.
As we came back to our respective rooms, walking down the long verandah, the garden by then was covered in thick fog.
Winter still comes to 20. Nutanpally as it will continue to come. Flowers, butterflies and badminton are perhaps missing as the dwellers of it.
Father left the earth decades back. We left 20. Nutanpally a decade back.
Now winter comes to Geetobitan as shafts of mellowed sun come through open glass panes. Crops are cut with scythe in the fields beside and stacked in a pile. A ripening fragrance of earthy crops replaces 20. Nutanpally that was shrouded in dense fog at night.