Dehradun Mornings

I like remembering those cold winter mornings of childhood. When I reluctantly left the comfort of a warm bed and misty dreams to look out of the bedroom window and face the foggy dawn of a Dehradun morning. It felt like I hadn't woken up yet. I would lean against the cold glass pane of the window and consider the branches of the guava tree as they floated independent of the tree which was hidden from the view. The fog occasionally parted to reveal a hurried pedestrian or a lazy stray animal before swallowing the sight up once again.

The mist swirled around revealing and hiding little pieces of a familiar world around me. Every morning it was a show and dream game. The mist showed me a small visual and then hid it. I then dreamed the continuation of the visual. I'd look at the dog as it sniffed the sides of the road and then disappeared in the mist. I would imagine it finding a juicy bit of something to eat and then sitting back on its haunches to munch on it. Then I would imagine it looking around for a drink of water. I always imagined uneventful everyday events like that. Those are what I was familiar with. And dreaming of familiar things meant that I didn’t have to be sure if the dream was a continuation of the visual seen or the visual was a continuation of the dream dreamt.

Some days I would notice the windowpane getting fogged with my warm breath and it would distract me from the view outside. I drew little pictures on the misted window with my finger. Occasionally, if the light was just right, one window would reflect the reflection of me in the other windowpane because of the way the two were angled against each other - like an inverted "V". When that happened, I stared at my own reflection that did not stare back at me.

There was the first reflection that stared back at me, then there was the reflection of the reflection that did not. I felt like a voyeur to my own thoughts. It’s like staring at someone who is unaware that they are being observed. And getting blown away with the knowledge that the someone is you yourself. So I became both the observed and the observer - complete in myself. I found that fascinating. I remember thinking about the infinite aspect of circular imaginations that are complete in themselves because of the simplicity of their existence and complexity of their perception. Visuals like that break open multitudes of possibilities that are normally chained in logic. I loved those mornings of open ended contemplations.

Then it was time to bathe and get ready. Every morning, I would attempt to start coughing and sniffling, pretending to be coming down with a cold so I could be excused the torture of bathing in the cold. Nothing ever worked. Yet hope is eternal, so I never gave up. Eventually, I came to realize that bathing itself wasn't tortuous; it was the concept of bathing that was tortuous. Once I realized that, I looked forward to bathing, but continued the charade to try and get out of bathing, because well - some things are just comfortable to do. One does it for the comfort of consistency and continuity, specially when one doesn’t want to deal with change.

I tried variations of the drama each morning. And each morning, mom would ruffle my hair and assure me "You'll feel better after a warm bath." Before long I would find myself shivering in a cold bathroom contemplating the wisps of steam rising from the warm water in the brass bucket. The steam would not assure me, so I would touch the sides of the bucket to ensure that mom had indeed given me warm water to bathe with. Comforted by that, I would sit down on the wooden stool and dip my fingers in the warm water. I would swirl the water round and round in the bucket. Swirling water is interesting - even when it is swirling around in just a bucket. The warmth would slowly creep up my hand inching towards my shoulder as I contemplated the various ways that I could fake the bath.

I sat there and waited to see if mom would knock on the door and tell me to hurry up. That would be the encouragement I needed to slow down even more. I waited impatiently for her. She waited patiently for me. Eventually, the warmth of the water would seduce me and I would dip the brass lota in the bucket. I would bring the warm brass lota to my face and warm up my cheeks with it. Then I would attempt to catch a reflection of myself in it. Eventually bored with the lack of clear reflections, I would take a deep breath and empty the warm water over my head. Having faced the first splash, the rest of the bathing ritual would swiftly follow. Soon I would be left with a prematurely empty bucket and loudly demand more hot water.

"You didn't give me enough hot water."
"The bucket was half empty."
"The bucket was only half full."
"The water wasn't hot enough."
"The water was too hot."

"It was the same as everyday." Mom would assure me. She never ever gave me more hot water. I never stopped asking for more. Somehow all that incessant whining and complaining was needed to keep me warm. If I didn't do it, I ended up shivering with cold. So I complained loudly and mom listened quietly. It was either that or singing. I guess she preferred the whining too. Then after I got dressed, came the best part of the morning.

On the really cold mornings, mom would have two space heaters going. I sat on the low wicker stool with my back towards them. Mom would hand me a steel glass full with hot milk sweetened with honey and a hint of ginger. She knitted these little cozies for the glass that went around the bottom half of the glass like a glove and made it easy to hold even with the hot milk in it. I would sip the hot milk as she toweled and dried off my hair.

The heat from the heater coils behind me dried my hair and heated the back of my neck and then slowly inched down my spine. The warm sweetened milk slid down my throat warming my chest and tummy. Whenever I feel cold, the memory of a morning like that surrounded by heat creeping into my bones slowly warms me back up. I can feel the soft warmth of my mother's fingers as they ran through my hair. I can feel her knuckles stroking my cheeks. And then when I finished my milk, she would take the glass from my hand and wrap me in her warm embrace. I can feel the light kiss on the top of my head and then the rush of her warm breath as she whispered "Feeling better?" I would nod dumbly and just sit there.

Surrounded by multitudes of warmth, hot milk warming me from within and my mother's love around me, I just sat there. I am sure every one of you would know why I immediately then started spewing a number of complaints and tried to use that as an excuse to delay going to school and therefore out in the cold.

"The milk was too hot."
"It wasn't sweet enough."
"I think I drank too fast and wanna throw up."
"I feel nauseous with the ginger."
"Why did you put the pink cozy on my glass again?"
"You've messed up my hair, now I have to wet them again."

It never worked, of course. I was bundled up in my woolens and kicked out in the cold morning. My mom is heartless.

Sometimes, on a cold winter morning in Toronto, the sun shines bright. Then I sit on the window seat of my bay window with the sun on my back as I slump forward with my hands wrapped around a cup of hot coffee. I love to feel the warmth of the sun as it heats the hair on my head and the back of my bent neck. A slow warmth spreads itself inch by inch from the back of my neck and slides slowly down my spine. Inch. By. Inch. Very. Slowly. Exploring each inch carefully. Warming each bit gently. Before it slides lower. One more inch. It’s like the sun is loving me. And I love that.

On days like that, I feel like a child back in the world of cold Dehradun mornings and warm waking rituals. Sometimes I can even taste the hint of ginger on my tongue. The power of memories is incredible.

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