The smells and smoke of winter
OUR old, open fireplaces have been replaced by space-heaters and blowers. Ages back, the coal-burning chullah handed its place in the kitchen to the gas range. Indoors and out, the once ubiquitous dressing gown has given way to the tracksuit and jacket. Apart from the shawl, the only thing that remains from the days of old is the monkey cap, the balaclava, which has resurfaced as a mutant in fleece and lycra.
The sights, smoke and smells of winter have altered. Especially, the smells of different smoke. When we were young and on our way to Shimla’s now beleaguered ice skating rink, in the early mornings, cooking and heating fires were being lit and one learnt to discern the smell of each. As we stepped out of the house, close by, some of the dhabas would be emptying out ashes of the previous day and collecting them to scrub their utensils. Others would be getting little flames going. Almost all these small establishments used cattle dung mixed with coal dust that was rolled into small balls. These would burn in movable containers that were fashioned out of metal canisters or iron buckets that had been given a layer of clay.
Ahead, smoke from the chimneys of the Army Command would billow — this was the Western Command then. Before the officers entered, fireplaces were being lit with bituminous coal transported by train from today’s Jharkhand. As we walked down the steep slope to the ice rink, making dark puddles in the snow, small fires with bits of paper, cardboard and wood-scraps were underway for vendors of peanuts or vegetables. There was a time when peanuts in their shells were not allowed in Shimla. The litter created by the carelessly thrown husk was the ostensible reason. In time, this changed and baskets of peanuts were warmed by small earthen pots or cans with burning charcoal. From them rose thin wisps of smoke with a distinctive odour.
At the skating rink, by the benches where we tied our skates, burners, similar to the ones used by the dhabas, would move from place to place with smouldering coal. Clouds of steam would rise from our socks and gloves as we held them close to the flames. Often enough, on the way back, we would stop for a dosa or vada at Indian Coffee House — which then had seating on the first floor too. Here, an open fireplace would be blazing and within moments, our icy fingers and toes would thaw. If there was no seating available, disappointed, we would move to the ground floor and try to edge as close to the smoky bukhari as possible.
At home, while there was a set of electric hot plates, most of the cooking was done on an elaborate coal-burning cooking range. This had four substantial coal burners. In place of bituminous coal, relatively smokeless coke was used. It even had an oven in the middle. At night, coal dust would be poured over one of the burners and a small hole left on top. A large dish full of water was placed over this and the fire would smoulder through the night. When you entered the kitchen in the morning, it would be pleasantly warm and had the deceptively mild smell of smoke before it prepared to turn to soot.
When one shifted from the hills to the plains, partly to escape the cold and in part to visit the rest of the family, the smell of smoke also altered. This now had the pungency that burning eucalyptus leaves and branches could bring. My aunt, as her friends proclaimed, grew the most expensive vegetables and fruits in South Delhi. In lovingly cared for beds, watered and weeded regularly, these occupied what was considered to be prime real estate. By the gate, a little frame of bricks would occasionally appear. Here, twigs of poplar were lit and in a metal handi, dal would be cooked. Needless to say, some of that smoke permeated into the dal and gave it a distinctive flavour.
Well into the closing decades of the last century, many college hostels used firewood for cooking, especially to make chappatis. Contrary to popular belief, hill people feel the cold too. One winter evening in Chandigarh, when it seemed that the chill had taken up permanent residence in our bones, we sneaked into the hostel’s kitchen, a place where none of us were allowed. There, over wood fires, a series of huge griddles turned out chappatis by the hundreds. These were then tossed into a pile of ashes to keep them warm before being served. We finally knew why that before these were eaten, the chappatis had to be dusted. With smoke, ashes were only to be expected.
