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.
Rohan considered this. “Then we’d never have to go to school. We’d just eat peanuts and look for shamians —those winter butterflies that come out of nowhere.” winter time in india
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. Rohan smiled, pulling his own razai up to his chin