'Everyone should make at least one. I am sure you will enjoy it.' My landlord sounds encouraging. It starts almost as a joke.
'The snow seems good. Its been there the whole day. We can almost make a snowman.'
'Not interested yaar.' My roommate muttered.
'The snow really is perfect for a snowman you know. But it will melt by the evening.' That was where my landlord comes in. Again, 'There's lots of shoveled snow outside.' And then finally, 'Here is the carrot for the nose. And here are the eyes. You can make one on the porch'.
There i a snowstorm, as I like calling it, the night I from Toronto. White powder falling from the sky. I trace my footsteps from the bus stop, watching them disappear, reappear. An ephemeral coat. A flake settles on my fingertips, melting away. I hold my tongue out and feel a few drops from the black freezer up in the sky. The yellow streetlights faintly the streets, reflected by the white. It does not seem night. It does not seem day. People, many of them are not happy with it. I am in the seventh heaven. 'It's getting worse'. I just smile and trundle along, watching the white hooded cars, the empty sagging seats at the bus-stop and the drains bemoaning their uselessness. Sometimes sinking beyond the invisible boundary of the sidewalk. But that was the day before.
The next day the kids on TV make snow animals. I wait inside, watching. And then it hits me. I have never made a snow man, ever. The decade old attempts at Rohtang were stillborn. With feet after tourist feet mutilating the virgin snow, it had turned into ice, tired, resistant and intractable. It had met the ultimate fate of all snow in India. Now is the opportunity. Hey, even the kids on TV have done it !
My landlord considered it almost a crime, a deprived childhood, one that had never seen a snowman. She made sure I march out armed with carved carrots, round onions, marginal enthusiasm and Calvinistic ambitions. The porch seems too public. What if someone sees me. The sole kid on the street has built a castle. Guarded by a plastic owl and a white dog which disappears into the walls.
My creation will have to stand guard at the backyard, where wandering deer venture in sometimes from the dundas wildlife reserve. Cautious steps, wooden ones, almost at level now take me down the backyard. The same backyard which welcomes all seasons, green in summer, yellow, orange and dark red in autumn and a dry white in winter. The floor is covered with a thick carpet of grass and green wall of shrub both of which feed the deer. It also hides the squirrels, big black ones which enter the house if the window is left open, to try their hand at everything from cupboards to boxes to trash. My landlord always thinks it is the work of raccoons. Now the green carpet is white.
Down, in the land of squirrels, deer, raccoons, shrubs, I glance around. A guy next door is practicing snowboarding. Down the slope, then up. Towards netherland again. He did not fall. I am disappointed. I scoop up a small heap of snow. Then stare at it. The winter cut through my leather gloves. Should I make two balls, one over the other like they draw in the cartoon strips? But it is no longer powder. The top layer had met the sun and melted brittle, stiff. The heap refuses to roll into a ball. It assumes the shape of a pyramid instead. This is going to be one big fat snowman with an over sized winter coat. I roll over another smaller ball for the head. It comes out oval, like a rugby ball instead of a football. The kids on tv had worked hard ! It is not as simple as it looked, I realized as I see the gruesome figure. It needs some hands now.
The shrub is not ready to come off and I am adamant. Slowly it gives way. The roots remain underground. Two branches in my hands, I stumble backwards. Towards the newly transformed birdbath-to-bird-ice-rink. Besides it were two pots, waiting for plants without soil. Not empty. Filled with powder. I see bright potential for a hat.
The sticks stand out like outstretched ghost palms begging for solace. The carrots and onions take places carefully carved out. I overturn one pot. There is an oval mound on the step. It is already non-powder. Hasty palm pressure made sure nothing came of it. Powder does not stay its own way for long. The falling snow forces that below it into ice. When it stops, the layer on top melts ever so slightly, coalescing. Snow cannot flow away. It collects, forming mountains everywhere. Smoke burns water. Black walls form on both sides of the sidewalk. The melting ice is slippery, so the roads and footpaths are salted. Every now and then, someone slips. But they need to reach home, to shovel all the snow out. In the fall you shovel leaves, and then snow which follows the leaves like a family of duck. Quacking away at your misery. Virgin beauty to monster madam.
I tried out the second pot. Another mound. But only a little bit of carving. The brittleness at the bottom is hidden. I place it on the head but it does not stand still. So I flatten the head out, thumping it, cutting the brains. Then make it top heavy. The snow has melted through my shoes. My capped head, squint eyed, begging hand man lacks shoes, I realize. I conjure up boots. One is large, another is a sad case of elephant legs. I walk back to the house, semi satisfied.
Next morning, as I wake up, the sun hazes into the room. Snow melts. Top heavy structures melt further. My snowman stands in the backyard. Hatless. Headless.
'The snow seems good. Its been there the whole day. We can almost make a snowman.'
'Not interested yaar.' My roommate muttered.
'The snow really is perfect for a snowman you know. But it will melt by the evening.' That was where my landlord comes in. Again, 'There's lots of shoveled snow outside.' And then finally, 'Here is the carrot for the nose. And here are the eyes. You can make one on the porch'.
There i a snowstorm, as I like calling it, the night I from Toronto. White powder falling from the sky. I trace my footsteps from the bus stop, watching them disappear, reappear. An ephemeral coat. A flake settles on my fingertips, melting away. I hold my tongue out and feel a few drops from the black freezer up in the sky. The yellow streetlights faintly the streets, reflected by the white. It does not seem night. It does not seem day. People, many of them are not happy with it. I am in the seventh heaven. 'It's getting worse'. I just smile and trundle along, watching the white hooded cars, the empty sagging seats at the bus-stop and the drains bemoaning their uselessness. Sometimes sinking beyond the invisible boundary of the sidewalk. But that was the day before.
The next day the kids on TV make snow animals. I wait inside, watching. And then it hits me. I have never made a snow man, ever. The decade old attempts at Rohtang were stillborn. With feet after tourist feet mutilating the virgin snow, it had turned into ice, tired, resistant and intractable. It had met the ultimate fate of all snow in India. Now is the opportunity. Hey, even the kids on TV have done it !
My landlord considered it almost a crime, a deprived childhood, one that had never seen a snowman. She made sure I march out armed with carved carrots, round onions, marginal enthusiasm and Calvinistic ambitions. The porch seems too public. What if someone sees me. The sole kid on the street has built a castle. Guarded by a plastic owl and a white dog which disappears into the walls.
My creation will have to stand guard at the backyard, where wandering deer venture in sometimes from the dundas wildlife reserve. Cautious steps, wooden ones, almost at level now take me down the backyard. The same backyard which welcomes all seasons, green in summer, yellow, orange and dark red in autumn and a dry white in winter. The floor is covered with a thick carpet of grass and green wall of shrub both of which feed the deer. It also hides the squirrels, big black ones which enter the house if the window is left open, to try their hand at everything from cupboards to boxes to trash. My landlord always thinks it is the work of raccoons. Now the green carpet is white.
Down, in the land of squirrels, deer, raccoons, shrubs, I glance around. A guy next door is practicing snowboarding. Down the slope, then up. Towards netherland again. He did not fall. I am disappointed. I scoop up a small heap of snow. Then stare at it. The winter cut through my leather gloves. Should I make two balls, one over the other like they draw in the cartoon strips? But it is no longer powder. The top layer had met the sun and melted brittle, stiff. The heap refuses to roll into a ball. It assumes the shape of a pyramid instead. This is going to be one big fat snowman with an over sized winter coat. I roll over another smaller ball for the head. It comes out oval, like a rugby ball instead of a football. The kids on tv had worked hard ! It is not as simple as it looked, I realized as I see the gruesome figure. It needs some hands now.
The shrub is not ready to come off and I am adamant. Slowly it gives way. The roots remain underground. Two branches in my hands, I stumble backwards. Towards the newly transformed birdbath-to-bird-ice-rink. Besides it were two pots, waiting for plants without soil. Not empty. Filled with powder. I see bright potential for a hat.
The sticks stand out like outstretched ghost palms begging for solace. The carrots and onions take places carefully carved out. I overturn one pot. There is an oval mound on the step. It is already non-powder. Hasty palm pressure made sure nothing came of it. Powder does not stay its own way for long. The falling snow forces that below it into ice. When it stops, the layer on top melts ever so slightly, coalescing. Snow cannot flow away. It collects, forming mountains everywhere. Smoke burns water. Black walls form on both sides of the sidewalk. The melting ice is slippery, so the roads and footpaths are salted. Every now and then, someone slips. But they need to reach home, to shovel all the snow out. In the fall you shovel leaves, and then snow which follows the leaves like a family of duck. Quacking away at your misery. Virgin beauty to monster madam.
I tried out the second pot. Another mound. But only a little bit of carving. The brittleness at the bottom is hidden. I place it on the head but it does not stand still. So I flatten the head out, thumping it, cutting the brains. Then make it top heavy. The snow has melted through my shoes. My capped head, squint eyed, begging hand man lacks shoes, I realize. I conjure up boots. One is large, another is a sad case of elephant legs. I walk back to the house, semi satisfied.
Next morning, as I wake up, the sun hazes into the room. Snow melts. Top heavy structures melt further. My snowman stands in the backyard. Hatless. Headless.
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