Winter | Time In India

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.

“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. winter time in india

The park was a ghost world. The fog clung to the bare branches of the gulmohar trees, turning spiderwebs into silver lace. The grass was crisp with frost, and their every breath created ephemeral dragons. They wouldn’t play cricket; the ball was a white phantom that disappeared in the murk. Instead, they’d sit on a cold stone bench, crack the peanuts, and talk. His day began not with an alarm, but