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.
“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
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. The park was a ghost world
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. They wouldn’t play cricket; the ball was a
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.
“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.
