“Beta, chai,” she would say, not as a request, but as a command, pushing a small, chipped cup towards him. The ginger tea, scalding hot and overly sweet, was the antidote to the bone-chill. He’d cradle the cup, warming his fingers, and watch as his father, Mr. Sharma, meticulously wrapped a pink woolen muffler around his neck, over and over, until only his glasses and the tip of his nose were visible.
His day began not with an alarm, but with the sharp, sweet smell of burning eucalyptus leaves from the sigri —the small charcoal brazier—that his grandmother, Amma, insisted on keeping in their courtyard. The winter sun, a weak, orange disc, struggled to pierce the fog, offering little warmth but a great deal of beauty. Rohan would reluctantly peel himself out of his layered blankets—a old razai so heavy it felt like a hug—and shuffle to the kitchen, where the sound of Amma grinding spices was the city’s true morning anthem. winter time in india
A small tin of money was passed around. Rohan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He had no money, but he had his pride. He was rooting for the underdog—the red one. The fight was brutal and short. A flash of feathers, a sharp kick from a blade-tied leg, and a silent, dusty fall. The red bird had won. A collective sigh, then cheers. Kaleem Bhai, laughing, scooped up the winner and offered a free nihari —the slow-cooked stew—to the men who had bet on him. The smell of the stew, rich with bone marrow and winter spices, mixed with the fog, creating a scent that Rohan would remember for decades. “Beta, chai,” she would say, not as a
Rohan considered this. “Then we’d never have to go to school. We’d just eat peanuts and look for shamians —those winter butterflies that come out of nowhere.” Sharma, meticulously wrapped a pink woolen muffler around
“It’s going to be colder tomorrow,” his father said, pulling his muffler up again.
They ate it in the courtyard, the sigri glowing a soft orange between them. The fog was a memory now, but the cold remained. Rohan looked at his father’s tired face, at Amma’s gnarled hands, and at the stars beginning to prick the clear, cold sky.
Rohan smiled, pulling his own razai up to his chin. He didn’t mind. Winter in India was not just a season of cold. It was the season of smoke and peanuts, of hidden suns and rooster fights, of chai and halwa, of stories told in fog-thick voices. It was the season that made you appreciate warmth—not the warmth of the sun, but the warmth of a crowded kitchen, a shared blanket, and a hand holding a cup of tea. It was, he decided, the best season of all.