The lost seasons of India: From Delhi’s crisp winter to monsoon magic

In the following three months, winter would take hold, bringing out razais and windcheaters and heaters, pockets stuffed with ‘gajjak’ and a shining sparkle to your eyes. You could still stand at the edge of a lake, with a freezing breeze blowing across it and feel comfortable – because the sun would be out, benign and still warm as a gentle hug. Of course there could be fog – a soft dove-grey fog that sensibly would lift like a theatre curtain before midday, to reveal sharply etched landscapes and dew pearled dragonflies, warming their gossamer wings so they could fly. Ducks would blithely up-end underwater and emerge tail-wagging and happy as only ducks can be, and making you grin and wonder: how do they do it without freezing? Up further north, the grass would glitter with early-morning frost, crunching underfoot like tiny diamonds, and the grumpy woolly bear caterpillars clad in black (and prickly) fur coats, would hump across ponderously, looking for a place to go under.

The mountains would glitter like great chunks of cut-glass, wearing cloaks of snow down their shoulders and in their valleys. By the end of February, you would have had your fill and now the first hints of spring and summer would manifest themselves. Flowers would dazzle forth, and there’d be the first signs of real heat in the sun’s rays. Over the lakes and water-bodies, the flocks of waders and ducks would begin stretching their wings, preparatory to the long flight home – flying in formation, flickering silver and brown as they banked and turned. And then one day, they would be gone! The trees would now begin to flower – golden laburnum, gulmohar, silk cotton, et al attracting the local avian population in droves to their nectar and insect parties.

Brown-faced barbets, those heralds of summer would shout happily concealed in tree-tops and the magpie robin would begin its flute concertos, sinfully-early every morning, as grey hornbills squealed and chased each other as they flirted and sought out suitable holes in the trunks of trees.

Peacocks, embarrassed and silent all winter, would now look at their newly minted trains and begin to strut and shriek. The breeze would be blustery and warm, but still powder-dry. And then the heat would really hit with blow-torch howlers from the Thar, peppered with dust that turned skin to sandpaper. But even now, there were delights – incandescent and flushed after a walk – there was nothing like downing a tall glass of ice-cold nimbu paani, or a tankard of chilled beer – and spending time under a cold shower.

But then, as the humidity went up and it became uncomfortable, there was more to look forward to, and you kept your fingers crossed. With every blade of grass and leaf, crisp and brown as khakra and papad, with dust in every orifice, you waited impatiently for the next big change: the monsoon. And then, as the peacocks began to shriek manically and the koels got all hysterical you knew it was just a matter of time. Better still, they say if you spotted or heard the jaunty Jacobin cuckoo, with its raffish crest, and exhilarating calls, a bird said to fly down from Africa borne on the monsoon winds.

The best place to enjoy the monsoon’s onset is along the coasts. In Mumbai you could see the first armada of gunmetal grey clouds, stretching across the horizon, firing lightning lasers followed by gunfire salvos of thunder, advance on the city over the sea, preceded by a silver sprinkling of showers: happily usually on the exact day, school was to reopen after the summer holidays! The whole city would come out to dance in the streets as the first big drops thwacked down.

And overnight, the tawny world would turn emerald. Bullfrogs in raincoat yellow would throatily romance their ladies, the peacocks would unfurl their jewelled trains, big red and black blister beetles would appear looking like Martians, toadstools and rain lilies would suddenly show up as would delighted urchins when your car stalled in bumper-deep water. And after a three-month dousing, you began to long for a dry-up, because there was green mould on your shoes and your cupboard smelt musty.

And now, all this thanks to our lunatic recklessness and greed, we have lost. The winters are grey, Dickensian, toxic and clammy cold (I have been exiled from Delhi all winter), the summers, an inferno of forest fires, and the neurotic monsoons debouch only cloudbursts, flash floods and landslides. Yes, ‘we had joy, we had fun, we had seasons…’ once upon a time…