…get out the thermal wear. Oh. Okay. Perhaps I exaggerate just that wee bit, but this morning, 5.30 am at poolside, the teeth were clinking along to their own music and the ears were covered with a hoodie to protect them from the searching chill wind that was intent on conducting invasive brain surgery, and the arms were freshly plucked chicken levels of gooseflesh. I am not ashamed to say it. I was cold. I sat at the chair outside the pool, while the offspring was doing his paces, along with the rest of the children, in water that had been left exposed to the chill all night and guilt tripped myself so much, I could have smashed my nose up from splattering self on the ground.
Mumbai is chilly in the mornings. The app on my phone showed me it was around 15 degrees Celsius. Here, let me hold that for you while you roll around the ground laughing. To me, born and brought up in tropical climes, 15 degrees celsius is the point at which my blood freezes over and you’ll need to microwave my head for me to function with any degree of normalcy.
A few metres from where I perched, miserable like a wet bird would be, the spouse stood, arms akimbo, watching the kids in the pool do their sets, dressed in a cotton tshirt and a pair of shorts, with not a quiver of chill affecting his stance. The boy has taken after the Y chromosome donor and swaggers through to the pool in morning chill, dropping tshirt and shorts to jump into the pool without a second’s hesitation.
But then what will they know of the joys of layering, of the pleasures of me clambering into the loft, hauling down the suitcases with the woollen wear and bringing out the soft stoles and the jewel bright shawls. And let me not forget the boots, the lovely boots, making seductive siren like sounds from where they’ve been packed away for the rest of the year. Yup. The Mumbai winter is here, and by God, I’m going to make the most of the slight nip in the air. And no, no one be snarky about your minus degree weather here. Let a girl have her little delusions.