For this is really the first time in at least ten years that I have been able to inhabit a place over a duration that extends beyond three months. My life in Delhi was hectic. I was always between cities for work, and between Delhi and Mumbai and Goa. The movement was exhilarating in its own way. It ensured that I looked upon my life in Delhi longingly while I was travelling and always relished the joy of returning to my apartment. But it inhibited my body's ability to configure habits and routines because these intertwined psychophysiological gestures are intimately tied to the experience of consistent inhabitation.

I sought alternatives. I tried to program my encounter as an instance of itinerant domesticity; pitching temporary homes wherever I went through the constancy of objects or rituals, like carrying my Mokamachine and coffee powder with me so I could have my morning fix no matter where I was; or carrying a hip flask with a precious single malt or Irish whisky so I could return to familiar notes despite being in different spaces, thus forging the illusion of continuity.

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After the initial two weeks of quarantine in early June, I have 'been' consistently in South Tyrol, with the exception of two train journeys to Salzburg and Graz, but for no longer than three days. This has allowed me to inhabit my lived space very differently than in the last ten years, allowing for a total immersion in my encounter with language, people, and seasons.

I have only recently come to know what it means to witness the transitions between summer, autumn and winter beyond the sensation of a nip in the air, at the level of wind and light and foliage and colour; and what the ecstasy encoded in the observation of events - like that rainbow I saw on the cusp between summer and autumn across the valley; or the interlude between the last full moon of autumn and the first full moon of winter, during which Sauerkraut is historically prepared.

Some weeks ago a luscious wind blew through the region at night. It whistled loudly and made its way through branches, forcing the leftover dried leaves to be detached, tossing them above in a swirling motion. Because of where our bedroom window is located, in the region between the spotlight that is cast upon the church tower, the dried, dancing leaves appeared fiery red-yellow, like fireflies. By the next morning, the trees were almost bare. This was the last thing I saw before I slept.

Two days ago, when I woke up, I found the blue skies that had marked our experience of the last few weeks had now a pinkish glow because the winter sun was emerging through a growing thicket of clouds. I asked my partner if it could mean snow. He cautioned me against getting too excited, having grown up here and having frequently been let down. But the evening weather report confirmed the snow forecast for the weekend.

Yesterday, on our way up to the library in Ritten, the mountain neighbouring the city of Bolzano/Bozen, one could see parts of the Dolomites encased in clouds. Shortly after noon, I began to suspect flecks of snow in the air, but they seemed slight and almost imperceptible. They gradually grew bigger and more numerous, until it began to snow.

This morning I looked out the window and saw the ground was wet. Tramin is nearer to the valley, so not as high. But we left for Ritten to our temporary job at the library here and as we ascended, we saw everything speckling in a layer of snow. It looks magnificent, and the earth around us feels wrapped in a comforting silence.

I'm readying for a weekend of snow. We have been warned to avoid driving, so I'll be working from home. After years spent simulating a Christmassy winter landscape by shredding cotton over fake trees, I'm excited to have a first-hand audience with the real thing.

Deliberating on the life and times of Everywoman, Rosalyn D'Mello is a reputable art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover. She tweets @RosaParx. Send your feedback to mailbag@mid-day.com

The views expressed in this column are the individual's and don't represent those of the paper

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