Something about the first nip in the air. Makes you imagine grey evenings when they are not yet grey. Smokes out of cigarette, DTC buses start smelling as though a firecracker just went out across the street. Full-sleeve kurtas are pulled out from the bottom of the pile. Razais are folded and kept ready at the foot of the bed.
As much as I turn up my bongsnob-nose at South Dilli, last winter, I must admit, I almost fell in love with the city. And with the moongphaliwalas lining the sidewalks of the city. There was a day in January, that I couldn't turn the page of an ice-cold file. I had never seen knee-length coats in pinks and yellows. And I had never known there were heaters in cars. In India. And had never imagined the weight of three blankets together. Just as I had never imagined that drinking and card-games were an essential part of a Hindu festival. At least its North-Indian version.
Delhi winters are charming. Somewhat like the city when it's not trying to assert conclusively its invincible makkhismo. Somewhat like a burly sardar cab-driver when he smiles ruefully and talks about his dead daughter.