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. 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. 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. They ate it in the courtyard, the sigri
A small tin of money was passed around. Rohan’s heart hammered against his ribs. He had no money, but he had his pride. He was rooting for the underdog—the red one. The fight was brutal and short. A flash of feathers, a sharp kick from a blade-tied leg, and a silent, dusty fall. The red bird had won. A collective sigh, then cheers. Kaleem Bhai, laughing, scooped up the winner and offered a free nihari —the slow-cooked stew—to the men who had bet on him. The smell of the stew, rich with bone marrow and winter spices, mixed with the fog, creating a scent that Rohan would remember for decades. The park was a ghost world
“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.
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.
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.