Winter Time In India |link| -

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.

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. 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. Rohan smiled, pulling his own razai up to his chin

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. It was the season of smoke and peanuts,

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.

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.

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.