The beginning of autumn, the promise of winter – how welcoming it was after the blistering summers and even more uncomforting humid monsoons — these all appeared to be stumbling blocks on the way to the cherished gulabi jara.

As autumn begins and the sun breaks through the changing leaves, memories come flooding back. Memories of a time long gone; of how winter used to be, once.

Back in the day, as one was young there was no need for improvised methods of keeping the house warm. As electric heaters were too expensive to afford, the angithi would suffice. Never enough though, as the pores of the hands almost touched the ambers in search of warmth. Sooner than expected it started to lose heat with simmering fire and dimming ambers. The best place used to be the kitchen, with the warmth of the fire on which the meals were being cooked. It was nice, to be unmindful of the cook or the mother, often stoking the firewood for the proper aanch. We all sat a little apart, unaffected mostly by the rigours of cooking on firewood.

And then there was the hot, fresh chapati that rolled off the tawa, grabbed hurriedly, as one waited for the next one — the meals went on in the course of such halting gaps.

But it was nice because others did the work, and we just ate thinking that was the eternal pattern that would last forever. Little did we care about the extent of responsibility the future would bring.

And then there was the ubiquitous lihaf, the ultimate shield against the freezing winter but it served many purposes. It was there not only to be crept under when wanting to retire for the night but also as a quilt to cover up and protect against the biting cold as it set in for a couple of months.

One sat together with others snatching to make the lihaf cover all parts of the body, pulling and pushing, squeezing and folding, brawling and scuffling. The warm feel of the sweaters pulled out of the trunks, a mixing of smell of wool with moth balls (phinail ki golian) parked in the trunks to save the woolen wear from tiddis, the insects that left little holes in them to be detected by those in search of them.

By the time one entered college it was the much prized motorcycle that was the valued possession and to ride on it to the college was sheer pleasure through the ‘pearl route’ – where all the stars of the women colleges shone. One took the route, even if it was not needed to, because there were shorter routes to the college, but none more anticipatory — it was the longest route and one wanted it to last even longer, and it was usual that one ended up in the morning class late.

A day would begin with the futility of going on the route without any chance encounter and then to enter the class with a runny nose and snow bitten hands – gradually coming to terms with half-frozen words that would be too heavy to reach us at the back of the class. We would just wait for the class to end and for the sun to be stronger as the hours progressed.

One looked at the winter flowers, the dahlias, the chrysanthemums, standing up valiantly to embrace the foggy morning and gradual clearing of the day. There was fog alright but no smog and the freshness of the fog nestled through the neck and collar to steal touch insides of the chest and the stomach – almost sensual in its feel.

The day ended too soon and the darkness spread its wings in no time for the mysteries of the night to take hold.

The fog soon settled to make visibility poor and the “mind’s eye” brighter. One could imagine the encounter the next day, rather, only the hope of an encounter.

The writer is a    Lahore-based culture critic.