Winter Time: In India

After his father left on his old scooter, its headlights two weak yellow eyes in the fog, Rohan’s real winter adventure would begin. He and his best friend, Sameer, had a ritual. They would meet at the corner bakery, where the owner, Mr. Agarwal, would just be pulling iron trays of khari biscuits and flaky samosas from his massive oven. The heat that rushed out was a blessing. They’d buy a fistful of peanuts—still warm from being roasted in hot sand—and walk to the nearby park.

“The fog is thick as curd today,” his father would announce, his breath a small cloud. “The trains will be hours late.” He worked at the Charbagh railway station, and winter turned his orderly world into a chaotic symphony of delayed expresses and stranded passengers. Rohan loved hearing his father’s stories: of entire families huddled around small coal fires right on the platform, roasting peanuts; of the chai-wallahs doing brisk business, their kettles steaming like small locomotives; of the desperate, hopeful faces looking for a name on a mist-smeared board.

But the heart of the winter, the event they both awaited with trembling excitement, was the annual Murgi Bazaar —the chicken market—held on the last Sunday of December. It wasn't a market for buying, but for watching. The local butcher, a giant of a man named Kaleem Bhai, would set up a makeshift arena in an empty lot. The event was a rooster fight—illegal, dangerous, and utterly mesmerizing to a boy’s eyes. winter time in india

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.”

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. After his father left on his old scooter,

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.

The winter fog over Lucknow was not a mere weather event; it was a presence. It arrived in late December, a thick, woolen blanket that muffled sounds, blurred edges, and turned the familiar city into a watercolor painting left out in the cold. For eleven-year-old Rohan, this was the best time of the year. Agarwal, would just be pulling iron trays of

“What if the fog never lifts?” Sameer asked one morning, his eyes wide. “What if the whole world just stays like this, soft and silent?”