Rima Chatterjee
The First Chill
The fog hung low over Delhi like a soft, worn shawl. The streets of Connaught Place were still waking up, the shops pulling up shutters slowly, as if in no hurry to face the cold. Anaya clutched her oversized wool scarf tighter, her gloved fingers tingling despite the warmth of her coffee cup.
It was her second week in Delhi.
The city had greeted her with shivers, smoky skies, and a strange sort of stillness. It wasn’t the kind of winter she had grown up with in Kolkata—this was quieter, grayer, full of mystery. And oddly enough, she liked it. Maybe it was the way the trees looked like sketches against the mist. Or maybe it was because, for the first time in a long while, she felt anonymous.
She had come to the city for a month-long internship with a publishing house—nothing fancy, mostly proofreading and reading manuscripts in a quiet corner office—but it had given her a reason to escape routine. And Delhi, with all its grey corners and golden secrets, had welcomed her gently.
On that particular morning, she found herself drawn to an old street bookstore tucked beside a paan shop on Janpath. The books were arranged in crooked towers, leaning on one another like whispered secrets. Her fingers ran over cracked spines and yellowed pages.
And there it was—‘The Winter We Remember’ by Nasir Hussain. A rare poetry collection she’d been searching for since college.
She reached out, her hand trembling slightly from the cold.
So did someone else’s.
Her gloved fingers brushed against another hand. Large, warm, bare.
“Oh—sorry,” they both said, then laughed awkwardly.
She looked up to find a man around her age—mid-twenties, tall, wearing a brown leather jacket, a charcoal scarf wrapped loosely around his neck. His hair was messy, as if he had rolled out of bed and walked straight into the fog. His eyes were… amused.
“You’re into old Urdu poetry too?” he asked, raising a brow.
“I collect them,” she replied, trying to appear casual. “But I haven’t found this one anywhere. It’s like it disappeared.”
“I found it first,” he teased, lifting the book slightly.
She pouted. “I touched it first.”
The bookseller, watching their little debate, chuckled. “You both can settle this with chai.”
Veer—he introduced himself after a bit of smiling back and forth—bought the book, but just before walking away, he paused. “Tell you what, you let me have this now, and I’ll let you borrow it next week.”
Anaya blinked. “What if you disappear like this book did?”
He smiled. “Then I’ll owe you a coffee and a copy.”
And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd, the brown cover of the book tucked under his arm like a secret he wasn’t ready to share yet.
Anaya stood there for a moment, the street noise around her melting into a distant hum. The air smelled like burning coal, roasted peanuts, and city dust. She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled.
It was, after all, the season people met.
Of Books and Chai
The following week unfolded like the pages of a slow novel—fog-laced mornings, the quiet hum of Delhi Metro rides, and the warm scent of freshly printed manuscripts at her internship. Anaya found a strange rhythm in the city. She would leave her rented Lajpat Nagar room early, wrapped in shawls and daydreams, walk through Khan Market just to breathe in the scent of old books and new flowers, and always—always—find herself hoping to bump into him again.
Him.
Veer.
She didn’t even have his full name. Just a voice. A smile. And the way he had walked away with that book tucked like a promise under his arm.
On Thursday, the sky was unusually clear. Sunlight broke through the thick cloud of smoke and fog, making the city look almost magical. She stepped out early from her office near Barakhamba Road and wandered to her favourite refuge—Chapter & Chai, a tiny café hidden behind an old handicraft store.
It was her place. Old-world charm, poetry books on every table, and their cardamom chai? Unmatched.
As she entered, the little bell above the door tinkled—and there he was.
Seated in the corner near the fogged-up glass window, Veer was flipping through a diary, a coffee cup half-empty before him. For a moment, he didn’t notice her. The light kissed his face gently—he looked softer than she remembered.
Anaya’s heart did a little jump she pretended not to notice.
“You’re early,” she said casually as she approached his table.
He looked up—and grinned.
“I was hoping you’d show up,” he said, closing his notebook. “I come here often. But today felt… promising.”
“Because you had a book to return?” she teased.
He pulled out the worn poetry collection from his bag and slid it across the table. “As promised. Read slowly—it’s not meant to be rushed.”
She took the book like it was a gift.
“And,” he added, signaling the waiter, “your first chai’s on me.”
They spent the next hour talking like they’d known each other longer than seven minutes in a street bookstore. He was a copywriter, freelancing between brand campaigns. She told him about her love for forgotten writers, the poetry tucked in the corners of old cities.
They talked about how Delhi smelled different in December. About music that only sounded right when it was cold. About memories made when you can see your breath in the air.
The chai arrived—served in traditional clay kulhads, steam rising like poetry from each cup.
He raised his. “To winters and borrowed books?”
She clinked hers lightly. “To chai and almost-missed meetings.”
Outside, the streetlamp flickered on early. The fog had begun to roll in again, but inside that café, everything felt warm.
As she walked home that evening, the poetry book pressed to her chest and the scent of chai still lingering on her lips, Anaya realised something had changed.
It was small. Subtle. Like the first snowflake that falls before a storm.
But it had begun.
Fogs of Doubt
The fog was thicker than usual that weekend. From her third-floor window, Anaya could barely see the outline of the parked cars below. It felt like the entire city had been wrapped in grey wool, soft but suffocating.
She curled up on her bed, poetry book in hand, the one Veer had returned just days ago. But this morning, even the verses couldn’t warm her heart. Something lingered in her chest—a question, a whisper of unease.
They had spent three evenings together since the café. Unplanned, yet effortless. A walk around Lodhi Garden with paper cups of coffee. A spontaneous late-night call when she couldn’t sleep and he had just returned from a client pitch. And another chai, this time at Mandi House, where they had stumbled upon a late-night theatre rehearsal and stood watching like curious strangers on the edge of a different world.
She hadn’t asked many questions then. She was afraid to.
But last night, she finally had.
“So… what’s next for you?” she’d asked as they walked along the outer circle of Connaught Place, wrapped in scarves and easy silences.
Veer had looked away for a second too long. “Actually, I got into a winter program at NYU,” he said slowly. “It starts next month.”
Anaya stopped walking. “You’re leaving?”
He had smiled, but it hadn’t reached his eyes. “Just for a while. Maybe six months. Maybe more.”
The word “more” had wrapped around her like the fog.
Now, lying under a blanket and watching her tea grow cold, she tried to reason with herself. They had only met two weeks ago. This wasn’t a love story—not yet. It was just coincidence, soft attraction, and long conversations over chai.
And yet, it hurt.
It wasn’t heartbreak, but it was the ache of almost. The ache of things that had just begun to bloom.
She pulled out her phone and opened their chat.
Veer: Want to grab coffee today? There’s a bookstore crawl happening near Hauz Khas.
She stared at the message. Typed “Sure” and deleted it.
Then typed: Rain check? Need to catch up on editing work today.
His reply came quickly.
Veer: Of course. Let me know when you’re free.
He didn’t push. That made it worse somehow.
She tossed the phone aside and stood up. Outside, Delhi was drenched in fog and quiet. The kind of weather meant for poetry and closeness.
But she had chosen distance.
And yet, somewhere in her heart, she wondered—had she pulled away to protect herself, or because she already cared more than she meant to? The fog outside thickened, but inside her, a slow clarity was rising.
The Letter in the Bookstore
The fog hadn’t lifted for days. Delhi was wrapped in silence, the kind that made you speak in whispers without knowing why. Streetlights glowed like ghosts. The city looked like a forgotten painting.
Anaya hadn’t seen Veer in a week.
She told herself she was busy—manuscripts, editor notes, final reports—but in truth, her mind wandered constantly. To his voice, the way he sipped chai with both hands wrapped around the cup, how he looked at her like he was listening to something unspoken.
But she had pulled away. And he had respected that.
Too much.
Saturday morning arrived cold and uncertain. She wrapped her shawl tight and walked to the place where it had all begun—the street bookstore on Janpath. It was an impulse. Or maybe something deeper. A desire to be close to the first moment they had met.
The vendor, wrapped in three sweaters, recognized her instantly. “Poetry girl is back,” he said with a grin.
She smiled weakly. Her eyes scanned the stacks of old books, the familiar chaos oddly comforting.
And then she saw it.
A slim blue notebook tucked beneath a pile of Urdu translations. Familiar.
Her fingers trembled as she picked it up. On the cover was a single word, written in black ink:
For Anaya
She opened it slowly.
Inside was a single page, handwritten. The pen had bled slightly through the paper.
If you’re reading this, I’m glad you came back. I wasn’t sure you would.
I didn’t want to pressure you. I don’t believe in chasing something that doesn’t want to be caught. But I wanted you to know—I meant every moment.
This city gave me many winters, but none like this. You brought softness into a season I always found cold.
Yes, I might leave. But I’d stay if I knew you wanted me to.
If not, thank you for these days. For the fog and poetry and silence. You made Delhi feel like home.
—V
Anaya stood there, the letter trembling in her hands, her breath clouding the air.
She hadn’t expected this. Not a confession. Not something so tender, so brave.
And suddenly, all her doubts felt small. Yes, he might leave. Yes, they had met only weeks ago. But she had been waiting for something real for years—and here it was, tucked inside a poetry book at a dusty street stall.
She turned to the bookseller. “Did he leave anything else?”
He handed her a scrap of paper with just an address and time.
“Lodhi Garden. 6 PM. If you’re ready.”
A Promise Beneath the Stars
The air in Lodhi Garden that evening carried the weight of winter and the promise of something unspoken. Lanterns dotted the walking path, casting golden puddles of light on the old stone walkways. The monuments stood tall and silent, draped in fog, like quiet witnesses to countless love stories.
Anaya walked slowly, the blue notebook clutched in her coat pocket, her heart thudding with every step. She wasn’t sure what she would say—only that she wanted to be there.
The garden was almost empty, save for a few bundled-up couples and joggers. Then she saw him.
Veer stood beneath the old banyan tree near the central tomb, his scarf fluttering slightly in the breeze. He turned just as she approached, his breath catching in visible clouds.
“You came,” he said softly.
“I read the letter,” she replied, voice barely above a whisper.
He nodded, the silence stretching between them like a question.
“I didn’t know if you’d want to see me again,” he added. “I didn’t want to make it harder.”
Anaya looked up, the cold brushing her cheeks. “It’s already hard,” she said honestly. “Because you matter. And I didn’t expect that.”
He didn’t move closer. He waited.
She took a breath. “I don’t know what comes next. I don’t know how long you’ll stay, or where this goes. But I do know… I want to find out.”
Veer’s eyes softened, the tension in his shoulders melting like frost in the morning sun. He stepped forward, close enough that she could feel his warmth.
“I don’t want to leave without trying,” he said. “And if you’ll have me—I’ll stay longer. Or at least, we’ll find a way.”
She smiled then, wide and certain. The stars had begun to peek through the fog above them, faint and flickering.
“Let’s not make promises,” she whispered. “Let’s just keep showing up.”
And there, beneath the winter sky of Delhi, surrounded by quiet stone and the hush of the night, Veer took her hand in his.
No grand declarations. No fireworks. Just a boy and a girl, wrapped in scarves and hope, meeting halfway in a season
that had already changed them.
The fog may have hidden the city, but in that moment, everything was clear.
***
