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Shiver! Shudder! Winter's here!

Yet, we have to be grateful for small favours. These days, we are unable to enjoy even the brief spell of cold weather because ever-alert environmentalists have pointed out that the percentage of atmospheric pollution goes up sharply in winter. One of them even recommended, in the typical killjoy spirit of an anti-pollution expert, that people should not get out of their homes during this season.

I have always enjoyed winter, even the mini-ones that Bombay often experiences. This, perhaps, is due to the fact that it was denied to me when I was young. I was born and brought up in regions which had just two seasons - hot and hotter. Three, in some places in Kerala - hot, hotter and the monsoon when it rained endlessly and, yet, the humidity always remained high.

My father was always weather-conscious and urged us to take all necessary precautions against its vagaries. An umbrella, for instance, was a must for all seasons. When the temperature and the humidity went down during January and February, he talked of 'winter'. These were the months of Marghazhi and Thai of the Tamil calendar, which were packed with festivals. During Marghazhi, people got up very early, wrapped themselves up in all kinds of clothes and went out to attend different kinds of bhajanai, where devotional songs were sung.

I was seldom permitted to attend these. My father knew that my interest in the bhajanais had nothing to do with religious fervour. I only concentrated on the tasty prasadam, which was served once the singing and poojas were over. The vadais, pongal and neyiappam that were distributed were delicious enough to warrant wading through the polar regions. But Tirunelveli, Madurai and other parts of south India where I attended these sessions were far removed from the polar regions.

There was a slight nip in the atmosphere, particularly at 5.30 am. Father did not want us to take any risks. Sweaters and accessories were unknown in those parts of India. But father had purchased huge pieces of Binny's flannel cloth which were cut into smaller pieces. Anyone who wanted to venture out to attend the bhajans had to tie these flannel pieces on their heads.

I was reluctant to do so, because no one else favoured such headgear. In fact, many of the orthodox brahmins who were present at the bhajans had bathed in the river and were bare cheated. Winter had no impact on them. But father would not understand any of this and insisted on the flannel headgear, which aroused a lot of merriment among my friends. Some of them suggested that I use the flannel cloth to wrap up double portions of the prasad and carry it home!

Father insisted on other precautions as though we were Shackletons or Perrys on our way to explore the Poles. No cold baths were permitted; the servants were told to keep ready buckets of hot water. I had always hated piping hot food, but could not escape this ordeal during the cooler months.

Actually, our only real acquaintance with winter came through the English poems we studied at school. Some of them dealt with 'death laying its icy hands on kings', 'dew drops glittering in the sun' and so on. One of the chapters in Bleak House dealt with the harshness of the English winter. And I always wondered if they also put on flannel headgear and were forced to take hot baths!

Finally, I encountered my first real winter in Delhi, when I was about 17 and staying with an uncle of mine. I still remember the harshness of my first Delhi winter. The minimum temperature kept dropping until it registered an astonishing one degree or two degrees. My body and mind went into hibernation; I was amazed at how the Delhiites woke up at their usual time and went about their work. I could not even come out of my razai.

The flesh near my finger nails began to bleed, shaving was a painful ordeal, my teeth chattered all the time... I had no warm clothes and had to make do with my cousin's pullovers and uncle's woolen dressing gowns. I was constantly shivering during my journey to Dehra Dun to attend the six-day Services Selection Board interview for the National Defence Academy.

Over there, my poor cotton suit, stitched by a Palakadu tailor, stood out against the woolen coats, Harris Tweed jackets and polo neck sweaters of the affluent North Indian boys. No wonder, I was turned down at the interview. How, I wondered, could the crazy English poets pen lines praising this kind of weather?

Winter now became a permanent part of my life. For the next 19 years, I lived in Ahmedabad, where temperatures often went down to two or three degrees C during the colder months. As a journalist, I visited the border desert areas of Kutch and Bhuj, where temperatures dropped to almost freezing point.

By now, I had learnt to enjoy winter. I could afford warm clothing and winter vegetables and meat made eating a pleasure. Why, even the brisk morning walks (if you were properly attired) tingled the blood and prepared one for the day ahead. In short, winter became my favourite season.

I am amused when Bombayites talk of winter in their city where, for two or three days in a year, the temperature drops to around 15 degree C. Jackets and sweaters are pulled out of the mothballs, the Nepali hawkers appear as though by magic, selling woolens. The Bombay winter offers an additional pleasure. Some of the Punjabi restaurants in the city add sarson ka saag and makkai di roti to their menus.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier