Winter never really arrives. It spreads. Slowly, in the wailing of gradually descending columns of chilly air emptying the streets as it gets darker. Out by the smog hugged shanties on the highway, in the dead of night the first pot of milk tea boils on blue flames. The bright yellow fire started by a homeless man is shared by few patrolmen, intercity drivers, and daily labourers. Winters don’t differentiate. Over the years, it has always found a way to show that everyone craves for a bit of warmth. Yet, for all its gloom, winters compensate fairly too. It brings with it blue skies and a sunshine that splashes Nature with a burst of colours. Orange and yellow marigolds, butterfly shaped pansies blooming against the backdrop of a green garden. Winter is about an afternoon siesta on the terrace, blessed by the 3pm sun, a cup of hot chocolate by the fireplace, in the evenings, at a remote hill station bungalow. Winters are more quilts and blankets than hoodies and jackets, ...
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