Just as spring is heralded by birdsong, winter in Calcutta is heralded by the collective clarion call of the Bengali mother — “Toopi por, thanda lege jabe!” The “toopi”, of course, refers to that great Bengali staple, the ubiquitous monkey cap. And the ominous warning after that, “thanda lege jabe”, is a fate that strikes fear into the heart of any Bengali worth his shawl.

Having endured seven British winters, I was somewhat unprepared for what greeted me in Calcutta come November 2010. Monkey caps blossomed all over the city in myriad colours, knits and styles, making babies gender-unspecific. An efflorescence of shawls and sweaters dotted the streets in the Bengali’s favourite hue, maroon.

Indeed, if you were studying winter attire — or gorom jama as it is known here — you would be delighted with the variety of specimens on display. And it was still around 25 degrees Celsius at the time.

Regardless of the temperature, the gorom jama season begins in November. Despite these measures, it is the unfortunate Bengali who seems to be constantly sniffling, coughing, spluttering and snivelling well into the New Year. Catching a cold comes easily to a Bengali. Indeed a Bengali doesn’t catch a cold as much as the cold seems to catch him. Despite all anti-cold measures, the cold eventually sniffs out any passing Bengali. So really, he is right to be paranoid.

Can there be a logical explanation for this? Perhaps the Bengali baby, swaddled in layers of wool and fabric since birth, has never gotten a chance to develop his natural immunity.

Is the monkey cap as innocent as it seems or is it a sinister element of a vicious cycle that perpetuates the Bengali’s abhorrence of the cold? Is it like a drug, the more you wear it, the more you’ll need to wear it?

Fingers first

Many Bengalis seem to have their own special way of coping with the cold. I have a friend who keeps a pair of gloves handy by his bedside. Apparently, he slips them on every night as he gathers his lep (another Bengali staple) closer around him. These are measures unheard of even in the midst of a London winter so hats off (or rather, gloves on) to this particular gentleman.

In fact, gloves seem to have become very popular of late. Not the scrawny woollen ones we are used to seeing but the big, bulky, padded kind usually found abroad. The other day I witnessed a man drop his mobile phone onto the pavement because he was trying to send an SMS with a huge pair of gloves on. Undeterred, he picked up the phone and continued typing away; removing the gloves wasn’t an option!

Bengalis often seem inexplicable to the outside world and this is not without reason. Last week I spent an inordinate amount of time trying to explain the difference between a kantha, a kombol and a lep to a non-Bengali friend. He just couldn’t understand why we needed three different versions of what to him was basically a razai. We had to just put it down to the Bengali’s special relationship with cold weather.

Morning shows the day

Perhaps it was my long absence from the city, but I decided to observe more closely — and therefore hopefully better understand — this “special relationship”.

My quest brought me early one morning to the Lakes. Full of walkers, laughing club regulars, and fitness buffs, the Lakes were positively crowded at 7am. The morning walkers are another category altogether.

These are the hardier Bengalis who are loath to halt their fitness regimen just because of the weather. Instead, they compensate by layering themselves in half their wardrobe before venturing out at 7am.

I admire this lot — at least they are up and braving the elements, and I imagine their clothes just act as extra weights to intensify the exercise session. Who needs strap-on weights when you have two sweaters, a shawl, gloves, earmuffs and a chunky cap at your disposal? Take that, Reebok and Adidas!

The headgear on display at the Lakes was spectacular. Apart from the beanies, berets, caps and Russian hats, I counted at least seven different ways of draping a scarf around one’s head. The sheer skill of the Bengali in covering his head with a scarf would put a professional sari draper to shame.

But rarely did any of the woolly caps seem to be fitted on snugly. They all had several inches of extra wool forming a misshapen cone on top of the head. Having taken the trouble to put the cap on, why does the Bengali fall short of pulling it tightly around his ears? The only logical explanation I can offer is that the cone acts as an insulating pocket of air. Perhaps there is a method to this madness.

Maroon-ed among muffs

Also on display were earmuffs aplenty. A new sensation to hit the streets of Calcutta and available on the footpath for a mere Rs 10, these are all the rage. I initially thought they would be more popular with the youth contingent, but how wrong I was! They are a perfect channel for the latent flamboyance of the older Bengalis who strode past me, maroon shawls accessorised with combat-print earmuffs.

The watchman in my building adopts a slightly more cryptic measure. I can understand his furry leopard print jacket that is dutifully retrieved yearly, and I can even understand the scarlet muffler wrapped tightly around his neck. But come November, he slips on a pair of tinted John Lennon-esqe glasses that were nowhere to be seen all year. I can think of no explanation for why he chooses to wear these only in the winter and not in summer when one presumably needs sunglasses.

Perhaps he is trying to protect his eyes from the cold? He is however, the most stylish fellow in the building by a long shot, and I suspect he knows it.

Monkey cap moms

In order to complete my understanding of the “special relationship”, another category of Bengali that I needed to observe was the Great Bengali Mother. A great spot to do this is outside a prominent south Calcutta school just before 8am. This is a spectacle to behold. Hordes of mothers gather outside the gates, desperate to force babushona’s head into a monkey cap before he is whisked away into the school. If you thought you knew your monkey caps, think again.

This is where you can truly witness the fantastic evolution of these cranial companions. No longer a simple woolly accessory at most adorned with a pom-pom, like all great fashion staples, the monkey cap too has been re-invented. The new wave of monkey caps has appliqué, sequins, cable knits, lining, and indeed, frills and ruffles that spill forth over the neck and shoulders too. Imagine the frothy offspring of a Shakespeare ruffle-collar and a monkey cap and you may be able to imagine what I witnessed early one January morning.

Then there is the kind of Bengali who pokes merciless fun at all the others, never missing an opportunity to snigger at a monkey cap, and yet harbours a dark secret. This Bengali is a bit of a hypocrite, and behind the wisecracks lies a hot water bottle, socks in bed and an unfulfilled yearning for a monkey cap which this kind would never wear for fear of being laughed at.

My spine, like most Bengali spines, is especially prone to chills running down it, so if you’ll excuse me now, I’m off to fill my hot water bottle.