The Promise of White
Life has become a negative approach. So would one say when with every call one has to inform the temperature. Minus eight, minus ten, fifteen, twenty and so on… But the positive side is innovation – and quite a few. How to clean, cook, wash clothes, veggies, rice, dal, plates etc., without touching water. Sometimes a delicate balance with two fingers, sometimes using a stick or ruler or spoon and sometimes a kettle. The weather gods must have felt dejected – as instead of chichi and magi we started off on delicate cuisines though within limited availability. Breads were used for french fries, puddings, coating for cutlets and even sweat-meats. A heater was placed near the microwave to make it work and meat was transformed into curries, roasts, kebabs, soups, stews and casseroles. We made pizza’s , garlic nuns, brownies and more. Once you can smart winter there is ample time left. And with my hand perpetually inside gloves except for scratching (my back) there was no way either to paint or type stories the only option left was cooking.
Outside the same white landscape prevailed with all its glory. Mornings I gaze out of my window to watch the valley which sometimes remind me of the ice-age when everything was covered as if with a white canvas – till the volcanoes spewed smoke in the sky and trapped the heat – till god started painting on the canvass – trees, birds, insects, animals, rivers, hills and meadows… I know that the white outside my window also holds the same promise of a colorful landscape with blossoms, harvests and wild flowers. The rivers will wake up from its slumber, turn into a blue-green torrent and roar down the gorges… the flinches, wagtails and bulbuls will return… fill the valley with their chatter… the peaks will turn green and brown… the wild roses will bloom with pride, the poplars will swing with the wind showing their silvery undersides…. the village folks will be back singing happy songs….