I wrote this piece almost 2 years ago, on a freezing January morning in Delhi, for a Katha writing workshop at the IIC. The half-hour effort turned out to be more a personal rejuvenation than veritable prose. But it broke my six-year long writer's block, hence the attachment. Here it is...
I love this morning, now, this moment of seven ’o clock in the twentieth winter of my life. I love the dark cold biting at my ears and numbing the tip of my nose and swirling around me in harsh strokes, making each drawn breath a painful victory. My body is bundled up in colourful layers of wool, yet I rub my numb hands together and stamp the ground with my feet in order to keep those micro cellular structures within me from forgetting themselves. And I smile with suppressed joy into this winter’s effervescence, like a young lover secretly reliving the night’s first love.
I surprise even myself. For after twenty years, this is the first winter day that I love. It has taken two decades for a winter morning’s brisk cold to permeate every pore of my body, to have found an opening into my soul. It gives me hope, a shivering hope.
OCD can do that to you. It can slowly turn you into a stranger to your own self, an alien residing inside your body. Numbness becomes you. Blissfully, beautifully ironic, then, that this morning’s chill seems to have warmed up my brain, revving it up into highway speed. I want to sing out loud and shout to the world --‘I am back! Look everybody…I Am Back!’ And while I think this, each stabbing breath of the morning seems to confirm that.