Gluggaveour, writes Shweta Bachchan

Gluggaveður- (Icelandic) translates as 'window weather' and it is used to describe weather that is best experienced from behind a window pane.

I've been back in the capital two days and am feeling it dearly - I mean the weather. Added to which, I keep getting consoled by the natives -- who I would like to add, are already shedding one layer of insulation, as the temperature has risen -- that I've missed the worst of the cold front.

Showoffs! I'm a shiver away from hypothermic shock, heating cranked up to the max, socks on, thermals on and seriously contemplating hibernation in a bid to cope with the Northern winters when the MOTHERSHIP calls (this would be my mommie). We begin pleasantries about , what else, the weather and I'm whinging about how I cannot hack it when she interjects with a "you need to have fat on your body to keep you warm; you girls diet so much…" you get the gist.

Unsympathetic dweller of tropics, enjoying late afternoon lunches under the tepid winter sun in Mumbai, she doesn't endorse my sentiments and chatters on about seasonal flowers, pulling out one's beautiful shawls and peeling chestnuts, hot off the grate, as the remedy for brumal fingers and feelings. People who go on about Delhi winters very rarely have to brave them I think to myself, hear her out, and hang up. There are certain types of weather you must experience and some you just need to sit out, by a window, safe, warm and distant. January in Delhi is just that kind of weather, here's why.

Though we bid adieu to the British a while ago, and they thanked us for our hospitality by leaving behind high tea, beauraucracy and a rather ominous kind of "pea soup" fog particular to their erstwhile capital (London) and ours. We, of course, embellished these tokens of love and affection (ahem!) by introducing the deep fry to the high tea, triplicate to the bureaucracy and well, pollution to the fog. And while they suffer theirs stoicly, we prefer to protest by delaying flights, and shutting schools mid-week which all add to the manic frenzy we've whipped ourselves into.

Then there is the monkey cap, that accesory du jour of Indian winters, and if you are Bengali (I am half, so I can get away with saying this) the year round!! A monkey cap, in my opinion, should only be worn when holding up a bank and not by Uncleji from C block who has taken to wearing it indoors and out, confusing the colony nightwatch as to his identity. They are an eyesore and should be used to feed the acrid, makeshift smoke stations we call bonfires, that like Uncleji from C block are omnipresent at this time of year, on the streets of our fine capital.

For the final flourish, we come to the Republic Day parade preparations. So, like some people have the good fortune to live near the local Starbucks or Nature's Basket, I stay a stone's throw (literally - I know, 'cause I've tried throwing stones at them to get them to tone it down a notch) from where the parade takes place. Now not to take away from the jingoisim of it all, but if you had to be woken at the crack of dawn to the beating of a drum in early December, your mind would race to all kinds of conclusions, most pertinent being, are we under seige…by Sivamani? This year, in our eagerness to have the coolest kids at our party, we've invited the Obamas and the pre-dawn paraders are packing an extra punch!

Well, I'm hunkering down indoors for the long weekend, because I refuse to be another statistic stuck in grid lock, navigating the fog and increased security checks, seat belted to my car and forced to listen to Arvind Kejriwal's exhortations on the radio, this ain't the way I intend trysting with destiny.