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.
“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. winter time in india
“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. His day began not with an alarm, but