Jara :

Jara: Urdu Winters

Have we met this winter? You’d have known my shawl from 6th grade if we have.
I’d choose this point in my life as the beginning of it. Majorly because I can’t think of any other point on the timeline that was worth a forward story.
My organization and I very recently called quits. Adios my well paid, corporate lifestyle, cool party house in Gurgaon’s society job. Along with it the cozy familiarity of a substantially unhappy situation growing onto me, comfort zone, in fewer words. Whether it held me down or kept me rooted, is debatable.
And it is Delhi winters now, 8° Januarys. People who haven’t been here in the winters have only heard about it. I’ve been here on and off for the past few years, but first winters in 3 years of Delhi summers. Not prepared at all, especially after my last winter in Dubai. I was unanimously told that oil heaters are necessities in this city.
Now without a 7 am alarm for a 9 am reporting time, I had two choices to pick from, buy the oil heater or don’t. I opted to take one one-way ticket to Rishikesh, but not before maa parcelled(maa thought and baba enabled) a blanket and a shawl from home.
Shortest overnight journey from Delhi, synonymous to peace and with winters as good as here, it was a natural selection. Booked a couple of nights at Skyard hostel in the heart of the commercial city. With 4 hours of time between the reservations and boarding the bus from Kashmere gate, I got time to charge my phone, download offline maps, check hostel reviews and skim through Google images of the city while in the metro. Images showed Ganga, temples, paintings, river rafting, bungee, some more graffitis, and some more art spilled all over the city walls. Between the pictures on my phone and Gurgaon’s skyline that I was crossing, the contrast was stark. Both kind of art in its glorious forms.
As kids, we used to have art and craft classes while in convent school. One mandatory class in a week and they taught arts of the hands. Well, I sucked at it. Painting, pottery, weaving, stitching, name it and I’d have crashed and burnt at all. And there were exams to top it up, trimester projects. The shawl is from one of those projects that were mostly always done by mom, all the decently presentable ones at least.
Maa intends it to keep me grounded wherever I’m headed. The shawl smells of home now, it’s old and worn out and nights are going to get cold.
We should meet this winters.