Traditionally, the onset of the winter season is eagerly heralded by the sonorous calls of the vendors pushing their carts laden with gajjak, roasted peanuts and little pyramids of assorted dry fruits. There is an aroma of winter in the air, and it is expected that trees will soon be stripped bare of their foliage and the wind will carry dried leaves everywhere; blizzards and hailstorms and hoarfrost will invite people to huddle together for warmth around fires, the nipping air of winter mornings and evenings will make teeth chatter and the breath visible like wind-puffing cherubs. On the darker side, people will get ready for head-colds, cough, frostbites and chapped lips.
These vendors’ calls are like weather forecasts, reminding people to go up to the attic and throw down packs of woollies, blankets and quilts to be aired and made usable again, or to revamp them if necessary. Wardrobes will be reviewed and refurbished. As the season progresses, you can expect a fuliginous sky ready to send down rain, sleet and snow, plummeting temperatures to zero and below. For a short spell of time, the scorching heat of the long, hot summer will exist only in the things reminiscent of summer, that are packed and transferred up in the attic to hibernate.
Not so in Karachi where the summer lingers from early February to early December. Even in January sometimes, quilted coverlets are rarely used. We Karachiites have long gotten rid of overcoats, mackintoshes, Balaklava headgear and mufflers.
I have the hills in my blood because I cut my teeth there. So, when the winter season is here in Karachi, even by proxy, I am disposed to imagine the hills — snow swaddling them in white overall, icicles hang from the eaves of snow-covered cottages, the balloon going up to announce that the ice-skating rink is ready for ice-hockey.... And still, if my cup is not full of satisfaction, I would dig out from my small library a book that would refresh my feelings about winter, something like Jack London’s The Call of the Wild.
Come December, and shrill voices of the vendors of gajjak, roasted peanuts and dry fruits are heard as night falls, but without the nipping winds knocking around. Everything is a simulation of winter, even the wardrobe with turtle-necks and wind-cheaters that clamour for an outing. A tweed jacket would be tempting in the morning, but by ten o’clock it will hold no brief for your approval.
But isn’t Karachi’s simulation of winter a blessing in disguise for people like me whose thoughts return to real winter, but who cannot enjoy the luxuries and the pleasures of the season? I am grateful for it.
Traditionally, the onset of the winter season is eagerly heralded by the sonorous calls of the vendors pushing their carts laden with gajjak, roasted peanuts and little pyramids of assorted dry fruits. There is an aroma of winter in the air, and it is expected that trees will soon be stripped bare of their foliage and the wind will carry dried leaves everywhere; blizzards and hailstorms and hoarfrost will invite people to huddle together for warmth around fires, the nipping air of winter mornings and evenings will make teeth chatter and the breath visible like wind-puffing cherubs. On the darker side, people will get ready for head-colds, cough, frostbites and chapped lips.
