Peak winter in Mumbai and it's lovely. Rains come roaring here and the sun elbows about any shade or wind. But the winter is elegaic.
Days dawn with a coarse cloudiness like a piece of dry toast. Rye bread, maybe. Slowly, the muffled sun spreads in the sky. Feels like a thick, perfact pat of golden butter has melted and spread softly and evenly across the bread. Tiles on the terrace have jigsawed shapes of sun and shadow. Together, they make a surreal picture of unexpected times.
Winter is a stranger to our home. It's come unanticipated, of course, but it's welcome. It moves silently from one room to another, afraid of disturbing anything. But it leaves behind a sweet, spicy scent - of nutmeg, hay and sweet tea. A matter of weeks...and it will tiptoe away. Possibly, it will leave behind a thank you note on a chit of cabbage-paper.
These days are like deep, full breaths on a meadow. Winter isn't obvious in Mumbai. It's one of the few things the city is dscreet about. Yesterday, it was like the footnote to a story that no-one read.
Today, it's the hidden smile in a sad poem.
You don't really look for it. But when you find it...you know.