Winter at my house is a sensory overload.

The house seems to soften under the glow of golden lights and frosted, fogged-up windows. Doors stay shut, and lights are filtered through layers of dust and winter sun.

Our mornings begin with sound, like the clink of utensils in the kitchen, the impatient whistle of the cooker, and the rhythmic rustle of a freshly printed newspaper. Chai permanently sits on the stove in a beaten-up pan, always that cardamom-ginger smell that settles into the walls.

By afternoon, the house smells like warm sabzi being doled out evenly into bowls, and the sound of buttermilk being churned using the wooden whisk echoes throughout the house like an invitation. For all of us, this sound is a sleepy reminder to crawl out of the warmth of our blankets and rooms and sit at the dining table.

And sunlight is the prize that everyone fights for. Chairs migrate across rooms to catch it, and I, having just washed my hair, rush to the enclosed wooden balcony in the living room to bask in what remains of the winter sun.
Even the nascent, newly made pickle rests on the washing machine to catch a glimpse of the sun.

Evenings in our house are the loudest. Switches click, heaters hum, and the air is heavy with the sound of phone calls to my brother in college or my dad in Pune. Conversations drift, overlap, dissolve into each other.
The televisions turn on (and the war dramas on mom’s screen begin to uncannily resemble the Ludo battles in my grandparents’ room).

At night, winter becomes tactile. Layers of wool, the feel of blankets scratching at your skin, the relief of hands warmed over a still-hot stove.

Winters at my house aren’t minimal; they’re messy and loud and full of smells and sounds.

Yours truly,
Divi