“How is winter in the village? How was the winter?” I was thinking about all these things while sitting in an air-conditioned room of a multi-story building. Without realizing it, my mind returned to a courtyard surrounded by shadows in the distant past. There, the smell of dried neem leaves emerged from the folds of the quilt at the beginning of winter. There, the preparation for winter is intertwined with afternoons of roasting peas and the steam of bhapa pitha (a traditional sweet). There, a dish of gourd and shoal fish curry is served on the plate with care. There, a flock of wild ducks flaps its wings in the quiet swamp forest on a winter evening. Winter in rural life speaks of another world, even hidden in the veil of poetry surrounded by mist and dew.
That is why every time I had the opportunity to experience a winter morning in the village during my childhood, I felt like this bone-chilling cold was the creation of a frail old woman. Unlike in cities, smoke and fog do not combine to form a “haze” there. Rather, a thick, flawless blanket of mist embraces the village with the utmost compassion. It is hard to see the sun in that semi-dark winter. The sound of dew droplets falling on the tin roof can be heard. Indeed, the water in the pond does not freeze like in Western countries, but those who have seen the stagnant face of a pond on a winter morning know that this scene is a unique element of this country’s winter.
The sun starts to spread its light after 9 or 10 am. The dew-drenched grass sparkles in that light. In the village, evening falls even before noon fades and afternoon arrives. With the arrival of winter, the length of the day becomes shorter, but this change can be clearly realized by sitting in the yard of a village house. The beauty of emptiness is one of the elements of winter in the village. In the winter season, we do not see the usual green nature in the village. Instead, the bare tree branches and dry leaves piled up in the yard highlight winter in its own glory. Perhaps thinking about this unique beauty spread in emptiness, rural poet Jasimuddin wrote, “Whom does winter’s ascetic remember, shedding her cloak of adornment?” Indeed, the rural nature is bare in winter.
Nowadays, even the nature of the village has been touched by urban life and the all-consuming influence of modernity. Still, when dawn breaks in rural areas sleeping under the severity of winter, nature surrounded by mist and the sound of dry leaves falling brings back memories of all the winter mornings left behind.
In rural life, the winter season means a festival gathering around the stove. The house, yard, and threshold are filled with the aroma of freshly ground rice and newly collected date palm sap. Mothers and aunts, as embodiments of affection, make handmade vermicelli (সেমাই) and decorative rice cakes (নকশি পিঠা). I remember how grandmothers would try to join the bhapa pitha together while sitting by the earthen stove on winter mornings with profound love. They would go to the kitchen at dawn, ignoring the intensity of winter, to prepare the dudh-chitoi (rice pancakes soaked in milk).
It is not just traditional Bengali rice cakes; there are many culinary delights and events around winter. In the evening, a juice pot would be hung on the date palm tree. The tree climbers would climb the tree to collect it before sunrise. At breakfast, that date palm juice had to be consumed in a large glass. Some people would go to the char areas. In winter, migratory birds and wild ducks would gather there. Domesticated swans were one of the items on the winter food list. And there were winter vegetables. The taste of vegetarian dishes made with cauliflower, cabbage, turnip, and bottle gourd, or the flavor of stir-fried small fish caught by leaving nets in the water all night, seemed to double in winter.
Perhaps nowadays, people no longer cook on earthen stoves in the villages. However, compared to the city, winter food there still means an abundance of much fresher foods. Handmade vermicelli or tree climbers may no longer be seen in the villages of Bangladesh, but you can still take a peek into the village kitchens. With utmost compassion, an octogenarian woman might still be making “chitoi” and “puli pitha” for her urban-dwelling grandchildren.
In rural life, the winter season means ‘naiyor’ (a visit to the parental home) and ‘kutumbakal’ (a family gathering). In the regional dialect, the winter season is described as the season of invitations and gatherings. During this time, wives go to their maternal homes for a holiday, and city-dwelling children return to the embrace of the village they left behind. The most wonderful portrayal of hospitality comes to life in the village during this season.
After many days, a lively gathering of friends and family occurs in the village courtyard. For a long time, I have seen that winter vacation meant an opportunity for cousins from both sides of the family to come together. A group of children would sit together in a row on an extended balcony on those winter mornings. Then, it was the morning of quickly eating Chitoi Pitha soaked in date palm juice. While the elders were busy taking a nap after a meal in the afternoon, a group of teenagers, covering their faces with sweaters and hats, would plan a picnic. Two handfuls of rice from this house and two chickens from that house—that was it. With these, they would start cooking on a handmade clay stove in the evening. Those evenings in the village, illuminated by the lights of kerosene lamps and lanterns, would come alive with gatherings for ghost stories. With a betel leaf box in hand, perhaps the elderly grandmother would become the center of attention at those gatherings. She would be surrounded by a group of grandchildren, visualizing the call of a mischievous ghost or, due to the intense cold, even shivering while sitting under the blanket.
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