Oh, Snooooow!
© ๐พ๐๐๐๐๐ ๐ฎ๐๐๐๐๐๐
Snow has arrived this year in our little Midwestern town with a vengeance. That stirred up a flurry of flakes swirling in the ever-shrinking snow-globe of my mind.
Having grown up in a place where snow was never a topic of discussion, I had absolutely no idea about this facet of life. As I went to Calcutta for my visa interview, the visa officer, a Ms. Laura Livingston looked at my I-20 form from U@Buffalo and asked me what I knew about the place I was going to. I launched into a narrative about the research program on Computational Fluid Dynamics at the university. She lost interest quickly beyond a pitying "you fool" look and signed off on the paperwork. After all, how bad could it be, I mused. Apparently, Ms. Livingston knew it well, quite aware of the Blizzard of '77 when 100 inches of snow had blanketed that city with wind gusts as high as 70 mph. I later learned that a Mr. Jimmy Griffin, then the Mayor of Buffalo, had become famous internationally during the blizzard for providing absolutely practical advise to the local residents of the City of Good Neighbors to "Stay inside. Grab a six-pack."
I arrived in the Fall '81, landing at JFK after an unforgettable trip on Maharaja's Chariot and then, Shuffling off to Buffalo. The campus was a glorious riot of Fall foliage and the warm weather in western New York was spectacular that year. Wonderful. I was smug about my choices, armed with your regular clothes, a pair of sandals and nice brown leather shoes from Bata, a pair of gloves. Add to this a thin jacket that was considered more than adequate for my hometown winters and an even thinner understanding of what “lake-effect snow” meant. Until one fine late-October morning. I stepped out… and saw white. Endless white. It looked as though someone had emptied a million sacks of cotton straight onto the world, only colder and wetter. The stairs had disappeared under a thick blanket, cars and trees and buildings looked like snow-sculptures. I stuck my tongue out, caught my first real snowflake, watched it melt instantly, and thought, Well, this is magical… right? Right? I was cold. But I was also enchanted.
My first winter was mostly spent on-campus in a graduate dorm and my lab at school. Both places were nice, warm and cozy. The only hitch was the five minute trek braving the elements twice a day. Snow was anywhere between boot-deep to knee-deep in spite all the effort made by the campus maintenance crew. The winds howled like crazy; by the time you covered the distance between the dorm and the lab, you couldn't feel your nose or your ears and any exposed part of the body was pretty much numb. My sturdy brown leather shoes lost the battle quickly and fell apart, the soles separating from the uppers without much fight after the first couple of encounters with the salt and snow, right on the sidewalk. This cold-weather noob forgot Computational Whatever Dynamics for a bit as he learned the basics of snow boots, woolen socks, layered clothing, long johns, ear-muffs, ChapStick® and so on. Young co-eds on-campus who had been sun-bathing in skimpy outfits only yesterday had all transformed into shapeless but colorful blobs. A fellow desi grad student named Partha from Calcutta had actually brought with him his manki-tupi. However, it seemed to provide no more protection against the wind and the snow other than open stares and snickers from the amused natives.
Then came the winter break. The dorms didn't have that many foreign students in those days, as most of them usually lived off-campus in the "affordable" rental units, aka, student ghettos. Sharing kitchen facilities, leaky toilets, threadbare carpeting, with hulking old black & white TVs that received three channels on good days, and cockroaches. I was one of the very few and rare non-native dorm denizens. We were asked to move out of our cozy digs for those two weeks of winter break and had to find a place to crash at a very a short notice. For me, that was a 20-something year old couch with three-ish legs at a friendly student slum. A place with drafty windows that whistled with the wind, a rattling ancient heater that reminded one of steam engines, and a front stoop barely big enough to stand on without sliding off. Others sharing the unit were gracious and no one made a fuss when my friend allowed me to take over the couch. We all shared the common bonds of misery, the trials and tribulations of being phoren grad-school creatures, the lowliest of the lowly bugs on-campus.
During those two weeks, I kept my routine to make my daily trek to my lab and the library, now on the other side of town, after a ten-minute walk and then an inter-campus bus. However, each cold morning it was becoming more difficult to force myself to make it to the lab ignoring the open invitation from that nice, warm spot on the couch in front of a droning old TV. So I did go one day, stayed inside the lab, probably playing text-based games on the mainframe into the evening, venturing out fairly late to go back to my temporary off-campus abode. Only to discover that weather had changed drastically, and a blizzard was on. Winds were howling mercilessly, snow, sleet, stinging ice-pellets flew at me sideways, and it was absolutely miserable. Took the last bus back to the other campus as one of the few intrepid souls on the bus who learned that the rest of the bus schedule which would normally run into wee hours of the night was canceled due to bad weather.
The usual ten-minute walk that late evening took me only half an hour, wind pushing hard in every direction. All street signs and neighborhood landmarks obliterated by thick snow-cover by now, no other color except pristine white. Visibility was a few feet at best. It was miracle when I stumbled into the barely-familiar place where I was staying, bitterly cold, questioning my life's choices, dripping icicles and snot, looking like the abominable snowman. I became an instant and avid fan of fledgling Weather Channel, checking it multiple times on the ancient TV before poking my nose out the door. There was no internet in those days, no cell-phones, etc. The only other way to get weather forecast was the radio or the local newspaper, printed the night before and delivered during wee hours of the morning. Weather forecasting was in its infancy, computer models were non-existent, relying mostly on Ye Olde Farmers Almanac. Local TV weather people were mostly vivacious young ladies, impossibly sunny, cheerful and chirpy no matter what the forecast, or older men with no other real qualifications except their soothing personalities and droning voices.
Following grad school, with my first job and a sporty car, I moved to a semi-decent one bedroom rental unit in a block of apartments. It had a living room and a galley kitchen. 850 sqft of neo-middle-class opulence with shaggy brown carpet. Come November that year, I stepped out in the morning and saw my neighbor who was already out there with a shovel and a snow cleaner brush that he shared with me until I acquired those for myself. He was muttering something unprintable loudly that sounded like (I can only repeat the parts that were not blankety blank) “Here we go again…” I learned a few previously unfamiliar phrases that day to add to my already impressive and colorful IIT lingo. We commiserated, we cleaned our cars, we went to work, we came back and hid in our warm rental caves daily, all winter long which lasted many many months. I also learned that "sporty" car was not really a good thing for winter driving. I wish I had really understood what Ms. Livingston was trying to tell me.
Fast forward, Mrs. Yours Truly (YT) arrived and joined me and my trusty feline buddy, Stranger in that one-bedroom rental one summer. My feline friend abandoned me hastily and started following her like a puppy, he had an uncanny and innate sense of which one of us had a better value proposition for his needs and wants, responding to his variously pitched meows. Mrs. YT had brought with her a suitcase full of Bollywood snow dreams. You know, the costume changes in billowing chiffon saris and dazzling salwar suits, in sub-zero temperatures, the running up on the gentle slopes in Kashmir or among the Swiss Alps. Without slipping, the singing, dancing around trees typically native to warmer tropical climates, not these mountain terrains. The dramatic twirls, those long eyelashes fluttering to choreography, out of sync, unlike the ten lords a-leaping and the nine ladies dancing, pirouetting like peacocks. My attitude towards snow, unlike the Bollywood leading men, was sadly tinged grey with my recent real-life experiences with snow. Not as enthusiastic as Mrs. YT certainly, and she delivered the ultimate insult later (much later) that my attempts at appearing romantic that evening were quite half-hearted. "Not Kgp-worthy. What did they even teach you there, that IIT?" Apparently not the right stuff, I think. I want a refund now on that vaunted "IIT education."
No matter, when the first snowfall arrived, she nearly flew out the door. “Come! LET’S MAKE SNOW ANGELS!" Before I could even zip up my jacket, she had thrown herself backward into a pile of snow like a full-on Bollywood diva making a grand entrance to a soaring orchestra. We built crooked snowmen. We made elaborate snow angels. We staged our own mini musical, although without exchanging jackets, gloves and hats, or other attire, this poor man's version sans Bollywood costume changes. No selfies in those days, alas.
And, most importantly, we had our first snowball fight. I didn’t want to hit her too hard, so I tossed a gentle one. She responded with a fastball straight to my face. This movie heroine unleashed her inner Xena, the Warrior Princess. She had surprisingly good aim and very strong arm. She had been plotting, scheming and planning, apparently. Positioned herself strategically close to a huge pile of snow. She could shape and build up a rapid supply of well-shaped snowballs of exceptional size and weight, experience gained from making chapati dough-balls, I guess. She used those very particular set of skills acquired over her teenage years with the available supply of abundant snow. Effectively. Ruthlessly. Relentlessly. Mercilessly. That rental parking lot became my Napoleonic Waterloo, I was hopelessly outgunned and yelled "uncle" after a semi-valiant effort, and my white flag fluttered after a brief but intense battle. None of it was supposed to happen per any Bollywood scripts favoring the hero to the best of my knowledge, they all turned out to be wretched lies. Mrs. YT marched back inside triumphantly like the Conquering Queen while I dragged my sorry self in abject surrender. She did make hot chocolate with s'mores and said, "There, there." I did not quite grasp the significance of this moment, another one in a long series of an oblivious, clueless existence, for this was the turning point in our relationship. From that day onward, I don't recall a single battle that she has lost while my white flag has seemed to have fluttered desperately numerous times.
The snow magic lasted exactly until the next couple of snowfalls that week. Our rental parking lot was now buried under six-ish inches of snow and ice. The city plow had created grimy snow walls at least four feet high on the sides of the parking lot. Ice coated the car windows so firmly it looked like nature had laminated them. People were gingerly shuffling out there doing their penguin waddle. The more adventurous had swiftly reverted back to being less adventurous after a few spectacular landings on their rumps on slick surfaces with an icy glaze. Then the cheerful TV weather person came on: “8 more inches expected tonight…" Mrs. YT stared at the screen in sheer horror. She did not believe me nor her favorite avuncular weather person on TV. That the forecast for next several months would continue to include snow showers, snow flurries, snow fall, snow flakes, snow squalls, snow drifts, snow swirls, and all manners of that dreadful four-letter word. Long before it became popular among the unsocial media, she decided to "do her own research." She discussed this in depth within her ever-expanding circle of intimate friends and casual acquaintances, natives and desis, young and old. Her fascination with snow turned into shock, at the prospect of facing many more months of this sh..tuff. Quietly at first and loudly shortly thereafter, a new Bollywood tune emerged, a song of betrayal, with open hostility and outright malevolence with the J'accuse, with a refrain of "...tum mรฉrรฉ ko yรฉh kahan lรฉ aayรฉ,O saajana..." (Where have you brought me, you...?!) Oh, and Stranger? He used to poke his nose out, and express his opinions loudly about the weather. All of us howled together. "Meouw ouw ouw ouw."
The next year, we moved away from Buffalo with my new job. Life took us to a small Midwestern town. “Winters are milder here,” people said. “You’ll love it,” they promised. We believed them. Desperate to believe anything hopeful about less snow. We built our first house with a driveway that looked reasonably sized in summer. But then the first snow arrived, while nothing compared to Buffalo, mind you, our snow trauma kicked in with sore muscle memory. And then our next move was to the Windy City which was pretty much the frozen tundra in the winter months, grey, gritty, cold, wretched and miserable. With wind off the Great Lake that shrieked and cut through the multiple layers of clothing like a sharp knife. We were shell-shocked snow veterans by then, and the now familiar song continued to play every time but with love and exasperation "...tum mรฉrรฉ ko yรฉh kahan lรฉ aayรฉ,O..." Every snow event.
One incident from our years in The City of Big Shoulders stands out. After one big snowstorm, the street plows had come by and had cleaned out the streets the best they could. But the careless plow-drivers had piled up hard packed snow almost two feet against the mouth of the driveways, making it impossible for cars to get in and out. Mrs. YT had had enough, after all of us having spent hours cleaning our driveway. She called up the Superintendent of the City Garage and gave him a piece of her mind in her own unique way, usually reserved for unruly kids and errant husband. The kids and I were very silent, very quiet witnesses to her fury, the irresistible force unleashed at the poor civic administrator. Within 15 minutes, snow removal crews arrived back in our cul-de-sac and cleared up those snow boulders blocking our driveway. To her credit, Mrs. YT called up the same Superintendent soon after, dripping honey and being Miss Congeniality and Miss Sweetness Incarnate. The kids were in total awe at the transformation.
We have since moved back to the small Midwestern city. We had some good times during the next few winters with our kids, by now beyond toddler stage, fiercely debating who got the better toboggan, helping clear pathways in haphazard zig-zag patterns, making snowmen, sliding down our steep driveway with their friends, the snowball fights. Happy at delayed start of the school days, still praying fervently for occasional snow-day school cancellations, learning to accept the snow as a way of life. And the song from Mrs. YT still continued to play every dang time with all intensity of marital love and exasperated maternal resignation "...tum mรฉrรฉ ko yรฉh kahan lรฉ aayรฉ,O..."
The kids have now "grown and flown" the nest. These days, our driveway feels longer every winter than the year before when snow arrives. Growing much, much longer each winter. Much, much wider. Instead of shrinking in cold weather, expanding, stretching, defying all the laws of Physics. Much, much steeper as though the earth had tilted overnight. We engaged Randy and his two Elves for lawn maintenance and snow removal. Randy was a child at heart, enjoyed life and would also stop by singing Christmas Carols every year for some extra cash. After his sudden and shocking departure at a youngish age to the Great Snowy Driveway in the Sky, these days Seรฑor Raimundo's crew performs their snow magic. We save ourselves the sore muscles and the aching backs for the most part in exchange for a little lighter wallet. Only very occasionally, I get around to shoveling snow like a veteran who had survived many a snowmageddons of life, those snowcalypses of The Second City, the snowapaloozas in The Queen City. These occasions just become hours of quiet rumination, some fresh air, a little exercise, followed by steaming mug or two of masala chai and complaints of stiff necks, sore arms and aching backs. I prefer doing the driveway myself, slow, steady, methodical. I have a process, a path, a technique. A private battle between me and the snow. Man vs. Mother Nature, although I know fully well that Mother Nature always has the upper hand as Mothers normally do.
But Mrs. YT? She insists on coming out every time. To "help". She’ll grab her shovel, make three enthusiastic scoops, then declare that her shovel isn't any good. Reminding me that one she really wanted, nay, needed was that one was On Sale at the neighborhood Big Box store at 25% Off a few weeks ago. That I had apparently questioned her very unfairly and argued too loudly, in public, about the usefulness of another such high-tech, lightweight snow-removal implement and caused her much anguish. That the ones we already have are too old, too unbalanced, too heavy, too worn out, unsuitable for the task at hand. I wonder if she is talking about her shovel or YT, the other person behind the shovel. Refusing my offer to exchange the shovels or buy new ones the next time we go to the Big Box store. She would survey the endless white expanse, muse loudly about her friends who run their households "back home" with four and more helpers and have never had to do any snow shoveling, before launching into her snow song with some new verses but with the same refrain "...tum mรฉrรฉ ko yรฉh kahan lรฉ aayรฉ, O..." Within moments, she’s shivering, melodramatic, and fully immersed in her tragic snow-soaked routine. I ask her to go inside. After a few more woe-is-me verses, she surrenders and does. And I keep going, just good old me me and my good old shovel. Our two felines venture out cautiously sniffing the cold, wet, fluffy stuff, suspicious, not enjoying the cold but reluctant to follow her inside. And the memories of yesterday's winters loom over me like a cold, wet, fluffy ghosts.
Yet every first snowfall…No matter where we have lived, no matter how much my back protests in memory, the first snowfall always brings a spark of magic. Mrs. YT hums a cheery Bollywood tune. We pretend not to think about the cold, snow, ice, the wind, the dripping noses, stiff fingers, sore muscles, or aching backs. And for a few brief moments, before the shoveling, slipping, sliding, sighing and singing begins, we are again two naรฏve dreamers having lop-sided snowball fights in that snow-covered parking lot. Still dreaming. Still jousting. Still walking the delicate line, chasing the mythical Bollywood snow dreams before waking up to the snowy realities in this winter of our lives. With "...tum mรฉrรฉ ko yรฉh kahan lรฉ aayรฉ, O..."
