Winter Time - In India

This year, the fog was so thick that the crowd was a collection of disembodied voices. Men in long woolen coats and patched sweaters stood in a circle, their breath mixing with the smoke from cheap cigarettes. Kaleem Bhai, with a flourish, brought out the two combatants. One was a massive, dark-feathered brute with a neck like a wrestler. The other was a smaller, fiery-red bird with a surprising viciousness in its eye.

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. winter time in india

That evening, as the fog finally began to thin, revealing a pale, tired moon, Rohan returned home. His nose was running, his fingers were numb, but his heart was full. Amma was making gajar ka halwa —the quintessential winter dessert of grated carrots, milk, and sugar, cooked for hours on a slow fire. The kitchen was sticky with its sweet, nutty aroma. His father had returned, his story of a train that had been delayed by fourteen hours earning him the first bowl of the halwa. This year, the fog was so thick that

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. One was a massive, dark-feathered brute with a

“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.

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.