"Winters of Warmth & Wisdoms!!"
As winter arrives in my native village near Somnath, the entire landscape undergoes a mesmerizing transformation. The golden fields of wheat sway gently under the crisp morning breeze, while the air carries the faint scent of damp earth and fresh dew. The sun rises lazily over the horizon, casting a golden glow on the small, winding paths that lead to our homes, temples, and fields. The mornings are misty, with a thin veil of fog hovering over the ground, making the village look like a scene from an old, nostalgic painting.
The village wakes up slowly, wrapped in the coziness of winter. Women can be seen lighting small fires in their courtyards, the smoke curling upwards into the pale blue sky. The aroma of fresh rotis and jaggery-laden dishes wafts from the kitchens, mixing with the scent of burning wood. The warmth of the chulha is comforting, as families gather around it to enjoy their morning chai, infused with fresh ginger and cardamom, its fragrance filling the air. But what truly defines a Kathiyawadi winter morning is the sight of people gathered at small tea stalls and homes, relishing fafda, gathiya, and jalebi. The crisp gathiya, served with tangy raw papaya chutney and fried green chilies, is the perfect contrast to the sweetness of jalebi, dripping with saffron-infused syrup.
Winter in my village is a time of rich flavors and hearty meals. Freshly harvested groundnuts are roasted over an open fire, their shells cracking as the warmth seeps into them. Sesame and jaggery sweets, like til ladoos and gundar pak, are made in almost every household, their nutty aroma a reminder of the season’s joy. Bajra rotla, smeared with homemade white butter, is eaten with piping hot lasan chutney, while steaming bowls of undhiyu—a mixed vegetable delicacy with green garlic and methi dumplings—bring families together over laughter-filled meals. The villagers cherish their desi chhaas even in winter, its coolness offset by the warmth of the noonday sun.
As the day progresses, the sun climbs higher, taking the chill off the air. Farmers head to their fields, their voices echoing across the vast land. The rustling of wheat stalks and the occasional call of a distant peacock create a peaceful rhythm. Cattle graze lazily, their bells clinking in harmony with the natural sounds of the village. Elderly men sit on charpoys under banyan trees, discussing everything from politics to folklore, while children, wrapped in colorful woolen sweaters knitted by their grandmothers, run barefoot across the dusty lanes, chasing kites that dance in the cool breeze.
Evenings are magical. As the sun sets over the Arabian Sea, a cool breeze sweeps through the village, carrying with it the salty scent of the ocean. The temple bells of Somnath begin to chime, their echoes blending with the rhythmic chanting of evening prayers. Devotees walk towards the temple, their steps slow and reverent, carrying offerings of fresh flowers and coconut. The sound of conch shells fills the air, sending a divine energy through the hearts of everyone present. The village lights up with earthen lamps, and the aarti flames flicker like tiny stars, their reflections shimmering on the temple's marble floors.
Back home, bonfires are lit in courtyards, marking the beginning of long, joyous winter nights. Families and neighbors gather around, warming their hands over the flames while roasting maize and peanuts. Kathiyawadi folk music fills the air, as elders hum soulful bhajans and youngsters break into raas-garba, their swift movements creating a mesmerizing dance of shadows against the firelight. Someone plays the dholak, another the manjira, while old stories are exchanged between sips of hot saffron-infused milk. The air is thick with laughter, warmth, and the unmistakable scent of burning wood.
For some, the night ends with a quiet moment under the starry sky, wrapped in shawls, sipping on piping hot adadiya pak, a winter-special sweet made of urad dal, nuts, and ghee. Others sit in groups, playing antakshari, their voices ringing through the stillness of the night, competing only with the occasional bark of a dog or the distant sound of waves crashing on the shore.
Winter in my village is not just a season—it is an experience, a feeling, a celebration of togetherness. It is about simple joys—holding a warm kulhad of tea on a misty morning, laughing over a shared meal, or dancing around a bonfire under a moonlit sky. It is about tradition, love, and an unbreakable connection to the land and its people. Every moment, from the first bite of gathiya in the morning to the last note of a song at midnight, is woven into the fabric of life, making winters in my native village unforgettable.
"Winter in the village is not just a season—it is poetry written on fields of gold, sung in the crackling of bonfires, and felt in the warmth of shared laughter. It is a time when the air smells of fresh rotla and burning wood, when the nights are filled with music and the mornings with misty prayers. In the heart of the countryside, winter is not a chill to escape but a warmth to embrace—a season of togetherness, simplicity, and soul-stirring beauty."
As a city girl, winter was just a season to endure, it’s a feeling to cherish. Misty mornings with gathiya and chai, golden afternoons in the fields, and bonfire nights filled with music and laughter—here, winter isn’t cold; it’s warmth woven into every moment...!!
