BY APARNA BISHT
The wintry purple dances with the pink,
The sun’s last rays sweep across the hill tops,
With shivers running down to the toe tips like electricity,
The hilly folks go about their chores with hair sprouting from goosebumps.
The wind starts to roar like the mountain leopard,
It makes the unhinged ends of the tin roofs to sway crazily,
This dance goes on for the entire night,
The metallic sound becomes the default background.
It is not a calm silent night affair, I tell you.
The next morning presents itself wrapped in white,
The needles of snow hang down like extensions of the roof,
Frozen water springs are a common sight and frozen cobwebs too.
The entire town now prays for the one connecting road to be unharmed,
Waiting in queues at the only kiosk of a neighborhood, the folks shiver in hopeful delight.
Would there be enough bread and milk for all?
Would it snow again tonight and cause a bigger disruption?
It is such a relief to see a porter making his way up the hill,
He carries a stack of milk packets, bread, and newspaper on his back,
One can see the pumped-up blue veins on the back of his palm as he is greeted with words of praise,
He happily starts his walk to the next kiosk up the hill with drenched gum boots.
The sky turns into a deep shade of grey again,
The sudden calmness is a roaring sign of another down pour,
So, the task before that is to shovel the snow out of the cemented verandah,
Kids jump at it with their parents and with the "haisha haisha" cry fulfil the task.
Finally, it starts to snow again like a million flower petals,
The family huddles around a small fire holding steel glasses of ginger tea and a piece of jaggery to
bite on,
The sudden power cut completely darkens the room,
The embers shine bright like a symbol of waning hope.
It feels like living in a rabbit hole for few days till the white kingdom starts to thaw,
Huge slabs of white start moving down the sloping roof and smash on the ground with a thud,
One can also see men slipping and sometimes small patches of blood,
And animals with wet fur, licking and sleeping on dry patches.
So, when someone wishes to have lived in the hills then this is the tale I tell,
Of cold, dark, foggy winter days and feet swollen with chilblains,
And if you would still want to live in the fairyland of the hill then I have another story for you,
starring the stinging nettle,
For if you have ever fallen and risen from that bush, you would be of a solid mettle.