The sky is empty, there will be no snow in Bombay for a while. I wish it would snow. Great white flakes landing on my nose, covering the ground in a matte white rug, and turning this city into a place I have never seen before. But there will be no snow. Not even cold rain. Here, winter is felt by the absence of heat. There cannot be any cold. For that a walk by Marine Drive early morning or a drive in a rickshaw late at night will do. Only then can you not feel an absence of summer, but the touch of this season.
People fly away for the summers, they return when it is less uncomfortable. I would do the opposite. My summers should be summers, and winters filled with snow. These days there is nothing, but that is not my complaint. December has just begun, and there is time till we bring out the sweaters. If it snowed I’d lie there for hours staring at the sky, watching people pass me by, asking, “Why?” And I’d tell them it’s easy to see, it’s cold to touch but it’s soft to feel, and when I want to sink in it accepts me comfortably, and from here the view isn’t of land or sea, but the open expanse of my dreams.
I don’t mind snowballs but they aren’t my aim, neither are snowmen, I’d only do funny things with their carrots. I’d watch fresh footsteps in the snow, watching only humans tread where rickshaws hesitate to go. Snow leaves its mark, snow traps warmth, and the whole city would move in clusters of bodily warmth. But there is no snow, so we move separately, waiting for a winter that will pass by us far too suddenly.