Snow? Sand! Bombay!? Chicago!!
It's been snowing in Chicago. Heavily. Of course, that said, I'm aware I've added nothing that is not already known or usually correctly assumed about Chicago at this time of year.
(Note: A "change of hats" needs to take place here. It's a terrible idea to try to write a blog - even worse to attempt a scientific manuscript - with Yes, Minister playing in the background. Back to English, then?)
I was walking back home last evening. Most of the sidewalks are swept regularly but the snow accumulation is so high that I found myself in six inches of snow fairly frequently. It was that light little powdery snow, the kind that feels like sand under your feet on a beach (if you discount the cold). And it suddenly brought back a memory. A memory of Juhu Beach with Ma, Paa and the Pig.
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We used to park the car at the point where the road curved to run parallel to the beach. The next step was to grab a tender coconut, one for each of us, drink the water, eat the meat, and then, cross over into the beach. Shoes in hand, we used to walk north, barefoot, along the shore towards the far more frequented part of the beach. Juhu beach was really quiet thereabouts. Usually just walkers or joggers, the occasional butta (corn-on-the-cob) seller, once in a while the whiff of roasting peanuts or chana (whole lentils?), sometimes a stray candy-floss vendor. During the summer vacation, the beach used to fill with young boys playing cricket, or, once every four years, during the World Cup mania, football (soccer?). When you reached the 'fun' part of the beach, you would see countless people and countless shops and countless activities. The merry-go-round, the mini ferris-wheel, the stalls for bhel-puri and the other members of the chaat family, flavored ice golas and other warm and cold beverages, the presses for ganne-ka-juice (sugarcane juice... Aahhhh). You'd see families sitting on the dry sand, children making sand castles, parents vigilant yet relaxed. You'd see young lovers trying to sneak off into the sunset. You'd see the people who'd just gotten out of their cars being surrounded by the species who wanted to make a quick buck off them. You'd see hawkers selling toys and goodies: a miniature hand-held windmill, a soap-bubble blower, a something that made the most hideous noise imaginable... and you'd see children wailing and yelling aloud for their parents to indulge them. You'd see horse-carts and camel-carts, their drivers offering a ride along the shore. You'd see ... a brilliant, vibrant, excitement-filled panorama.
Our walk usually stopped a little short of that area. We'd wait for the sun to gently dip below the water. Once in a while one of us children would look longingly at the water, and then at Maa. She'd shake her head. No. No going into the water. Please?? Followed by a look the equivalent of an eyelash-bat. Then Paa would break the suspense; saying, fine, I'm just going to dip my feet. Pat would run the children after him, with Mummy's precautions ringing out behind us: Don't go in beyond your ankles. If you see a large wave, take a few steps behind. Watch out for the horse-carts! Hold each of them by the hand! (This last one to Paa.)
After sundown, we used to walk back along the shore to where the car was parked. (With Mummy's permission, of course,) we used to walk on the wet sand... the part that each wave just touches. We called it "glass". Ma, can we walk on the glass, please? Okay, but not in the water. Pig and I usually contrived to get the adults to walk on ahead of us, that way they couldn't always keep an eye out for us. We used to try to sneak in to the water when the wave got close. As the darkness grew, we shared confidences and silly little-girl jokes. By the time we reached the end of our walk, the lines on Ma and Paa's features seemed softened by nature and conversation. They might have come back by the next morning, but I know from how comfortable I felt, that they were comfortable that evening. The routine was the same, and brought the same sense of relaxation and mild enjoyment to our busy lifestyles.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
I looked up. I had felt the sand under my feet; I saw the snow. I've heard of people who've been driven crazy by the white world that surrounds them for three or more months; indeed, I thought I was one of them when I first moved to Chicago years ago. Now I see beauty, another form of it, but beauty nevertheless. I'm never tired of watching the snow; or, for the most part, even walking around in it. It's a different sort of life than the one I've been used to (Juhu beach virtually in my backyard? Of course.) but it is beautiful and majestic all the same. Just like the Arabian Sea. Of course, with the weather being what it is, I'm glad of this memory to make the walk back home that much more beautiful.
(Note: A "change of hats" needs to take place here. It's a terrible idea to try to write a blog - even worse to attempt a scientific manuscript - with Yes, Minister playing in the background. Back to English, then?)
I was walking back home last evening. Most of the sidewalks are swept regularly but the snow accumulation is so high that I found myself in six inches of snow fairly frequently. It was that light little powdery snow, the kind that feels like sand under your feet on a beach (if you discount the cold). And it suddenly brought back a memory. A memory of Juhu Beach with Ma, Paa and the Pig.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
We used to park the car at the point where the road curved to run parallel to the beach. The next step was to grab a tender coconut, one for each of us, drink the water, eat the meat, and then, cross over into the beach. Shoes in hand, we used to walk north, barefoot, along the shore towards the far more frequented part of the beach. Juhu beach was really quiet thereabouts. Usually just walkers or joggers, the occasional butta (corn-on-the-cob) seller, once in a while the whiff of roasting peanuts or chana (whole lentils?), sometimes a stray candy-floss vendor. During the summer vacation, the beach used to fill with young boys playing cricket, or, once every four years, during the World Cup mania, football (soccer?). When you reached the 'fun' part of the beach, you would see countless people and countless shops and countless activities. The merry-go-round, the mini ferris-wheel, the stalls for bhel-puri and the other members of the chaat family, flavored ice golas and other warm and cold beverages, the presses for ganne-ka-juice (sugarcane juice... Aahhhh). You'd see families sitting on the dry sand, children making sand castles, parents vigilant yet relaxed. You'd see young lovers trying to sneak off into the sunset. You'd see the people who'd just gotten out of their cars being surrounded by the species who wanted to make a quick buck off them. You'd see hawkers selling toys and goodies: a miniature hand-held windmill, a soap-bubble blower, a something that made the most hideous noise imaginable... and you'd see children wailing and yelling aloud for their parents to indulge them. You'd see horse-carts and camel-carts, their drivers offering a ride along the shore. You'd see ... a brilliant, vibrant, excitement-filled panorama.
Our walk usually stopped a little short of that area. We'd wait for the sun to gently dip below the water. Once in a while one of us children would look longingly at the water, and then at Maa. She'd shake her head. No. No going into the water. Please?? Followed by a look the equivalent of an eyelash-bat. Then Paa would break the suspense; saying, fine, I'm just going to dip my feet. Pat would run the children after him, with Mummy's precautions ringing out behind us: Don't go in beyond your ankles. If you see a large wave, take a few steps behind. Watch out for the horse-carts! Hold each of them by the hand! (This last one to Paa.)
After sundown, we used to walk back along the shore to where the car was parked. (With Mummy's permission, of course,) we used to walk on the wet sand... the part that each wave just touches. We called it "glass". Ma, can we walk on the glass, please? Okay, but not in the water. Pig and I usually contrived to get the adults to walk on ahead of us, that way they couldn't always keep an eye out for us. We used to try to sneak in to the water when the wave got close. As the darkness grew, we shared confidences and silly little-girl jokes. By the time we reached the end of our walk, the lines on Ma and Paa's features seemed softened by nature and conversation. They might have come back by the next morning, but I know from how comfortable I felt, that they were comfortable that evening. The routine was the same, and brought the same sense of relaxation and mild enjoyment to our busy lifestyles.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
I looked up. I had felt the sand under my feet; I saw the snow. I've heard of people who've been driven crazy by the white world that surrounds them for three or more months; indeed, I thought I was one of them when I first moved to Chicago years ago. Now I see beauty, another form of it, but beauty nevertheless. I'm never tired of watching the snow; or, for the most part, even walking around in it. It's a different sort of life than the one I've been used to (Juhu beach virtually in my backyard? Of course.) but it is beautiful and majestic all the same. Just like the Arabian Sea. Of course, with the weather being what it is, I'm glad of this memory to make the walk back home that much more beautiful.
posted by Summer Showers at
10:07 PM
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