The most complicated relationship I've had is with Delhi winters.

The mornings before school were both the most beautiful and the most wretched things to exist. Stepping out of the warm blankets into the chill, only to see that it's still dark outside at six in the morning.

The Delhi fog played its mischievous game, hiding everything beyond twenty meters in the icy air. The sound of my mom stirring chocolate into our warm milk, and our dad telling us to hurry while we could barely open our eyelids.

On one winter day, while we were waiting outside for our bus, I saw her wearing tight-fitted jeans, a neon pink sweater, and her beautiful white hair in a tight bun. Her pale face made her look even more like a snowball. The cold didn’t seem to bother her at all as she kept walking with a determined look on her face.

“They should cancel school on such beautiful mornings,” she said to us before going on her way.

The bus finally arrived, its headlights cutting through the thick fog, but I couldn’t stop thinking about her—Ms. Gupta, as strong as the winter itself.

The biting cold that made us shiver didn’t seem to faze her. She thrived in it. As we climbed aboard, I looked back to see her disappear into the mist, her neon sweater the only splash of color against the gray morning.

It struck me how she seemed to defy the season, her routine never changing, while the rest of us struggled to get through the mornings. For the briefest moment, I wondered what her secret was. Was it her years of living through countless Delhi winters, or something else entirely? There was something about her that felt timeless, like she’d learned to move with the cold rather than against it.

My sister and I hurried to school that morning, wrapped in layers against the cold. The day dragged on, and I was eager for it to end. When we finally stepped off the bus and made our way home, we were met with a familiar sight: our grandma sitting in the living room, her face lighting up when she saw us.

"You both have grown so much!" she said.

"You saw us last month," we replied, smiling.

"Ah, well! Tell me all about your day!" she said.

My sister and I shared the stories of our day-to-day lives, carefully leaving out anything that might get us in trouble. Grandma listened with a knowing smile, nodding at every detail.

The moment my sister left, Grandma turned to me with a mischievous smile and asked, "So, do you have a boyfriend yet?"

I blushed furiously and tried to change the subject. "Oh, you know who we saw today? The old lady from Block nine, on her usual morning walk. She doesn't feel the cold at all!"

"My God, that buddhi is still the same as she was 20 years ago. She’s got the same energy! The stories I could tell you about her..."

I looked at her, eager to hear more. I ignored her comment on the woman's age, especially considering that Grandma herself was no longer in the prime of her life.

"Her twin sister used to live here too, and they were exactly alike. Did you know she had a pet garden snake? Can you imagine having such a creature slithering around the house? Just the thought gives me shivers.

"Anyway, when her knee started acting up, her daughter called her to the States. Since then, Ms. Gupta has been living alone. Every time I speak to her, she seems more eccentric. Now, tell me, who in their right mind wears jeans that tight at 85?"

Her rant about clothing went on for what felt like the hundredth time, as I quietly slipped away for a quick afternoon nap.

The coming Sunday had been planned for weeks, with five close family friends from the same apartment. The potluck picnic was an excuse to showcase who was the best cook among us all.

Our house was filled with chaos the day before. My mom battered nearly forty chops and marinated the chicken. She tortured us with the delicious smells, making us wait until the next day so that we could have it with everyone else.

"Both of you, don’t just stand there—help me! I swear I’m going to get a fever from overworking.”

But the moment we tried to help, she’d yell at us, pointing out everything we did wrong. Eventually, we gave up and went back to watching the same old shows we’d seen a hundred times.

My dad crafted one of his delicate tomatoes to look like a rose for the salad. My dad’s skill with the knife was unmatched. My grandma made her famous gulab jamuns.

Every family gathering seemed to have these small rituals—my dad’s decorative salads, my grandma’s desserts, and us kids sneaking in and out, pretending to help.

We chose a spot near the lake for Sunday's picnic. To our surprise, Ms. Gupta had tagged along with one of the families.

The blanket was spread on the hard ground, and flasks were neatly arranged alongside the countless plates and bowls we’d brought from home. The food remained tightly packed in kadhais. Several eager hands reached for a warm cup of chai from the flask—because what’s a picnic without a perfect cup of chai?

The cold air felt especially crisp that morning as the uncles had their usual political debates and the aunties complained about how hard it was to get anything done in this weather. Meanwhile, the four of us kids played badminton nearby, laughing and teasing anyone who lost. All the while, we were waiting for the call to lunch.

In the distance, one of the ladies called out to Ms. Gupta, “Oh, aunty, I don't think you're allowed to pick those flowers—it says so right there! Plus, look how beautiful they are!”

Ms. Gupta was unbothered. She waved a dismissive hand and replied, “Who cares what the board says? I love marigolds, and I shall take them home. When I was young, I used to pick so many marigolds with my sister.”

We finally settled down to eat. Ms. Gupta, never one to keep a story to herself, began talking.

"Did I tell you what my maid did again? Just the other day, I was going through my drawers to find the spoon set my sister brought me from the US, and two of them were missing!

"I immediately knew my maid had taken them, so I confronted her. She had the nerve to cry and say she hadn’t touched them. What a liar! My sister will be furious when she hears about this. Good thing I’m visiting her next month and can tell her in person.”

Curious, I asked, “But dadi, are you sure your maid took them? What would she need them for?”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, waving her hand dismissively. “I’ve noticed the way she’s been eyeing those spoons for days.”

She went on, sure of her suspicion. The rest of us exchanged amused looks, silently enjoying the show along with our meal.

During the ride back home, we were all sleepy after spending the day stuffing ourselves with food. The warmth of the car and the soothing hum of the engine made it impossible to stay awake. Within 15 minutes my sister and I had both drifted off to sleep in the backseat, each leaning against one side of our grandma, while old Hindi songs softly played on the radio.

I somehow always knew when we were nearing home, even in my half-asleep state. In fact, I still pride myself on having this skill.

The week after the picnic, Ms. Gupta became a constant presence in our lives. She kept calling my parents for every little thing as she prepared for her trip to the USA. Whether it was asking my mom to help her pack “just one small suitcase,” or asking my dad to double-check her travel documents, she always had a new reason to reach out.

“Beta, can you drop by to show me how to work the TV remote? I’ll be gone for so long, I don't want to embarrass myself over there,” she would say. The next day, “I can’t find my passport! I’m sure it’s here somewhere, but I need you to help me look.”

My parents exchanged tired smiles. They knew she was just anxious about the trip and missing her sister, but they humored her, helping with each small task as the days went by.

Each time we helped her, Ms. Gupta would reward us with dry fruits or one of her famous mithais.

Once, while helping her open an old carton, we uncovered a treasure trove of family photos. There were sepia-toned portraits of Ms. Gupta as a young woman, smiling beside her twin sister, both dressed in elegant saris. Another photo showed a gathering, probably decades old, with the whole family seated around a table. Their faces were bright with laughter.

Each picture told a story. As we sifted through them, she’d occasionally pause to share a memory, her eyes soft with nostalgia.

I found myself wondering why Ms. Gupta had never married, especially since she had been quite beautiful in her youth. As if sensing my curiosity, she began to speak.

"Did you know I have a bachelor's degree in history? Back then, it was considered quite an accomplishment," she said with a hint of pride. "My father was so supportive of my education that he sent me all the way to Delhi to study.

"I was one of the few women in my class. And by a stroke of luck, my sister soon got married to a man who lived in Delhi. I took a flat nearby, close enough to visit often. After her husband passed, I moved in with her to help. We became each other’s lifelines.”

She paused, looking out of the window like she was reliving the moments.

"This city has its own charm," she went on. "It has raised me in ways my hometown never could have. The streets, the bustling markets, the people... Oh, where do I even begin? The friends I made, the festivals we celebrated—Delhi becomes a part of you, like an old friend who shares your laughter and your sorrows. It’s where I grew into myself, where I learned to be independent and strong."

Her words hung in the air, revealing a life rich with experience and shaped by choice, circumstance, and the city she so clearly adored.

Outside, the sky was painted in shades of bright orange, the fading sun casting long shadows across the streets. The distant call to namaaz echoed softly, blending with the evening breeze and adding a layer of peace to the moment.

It was like the city itself was responding to her story. In that moment, everything seemed to come together—the colors, the sounds, her words—making it even more beautiful and bittersweet.

The air had started getting warmer as February began. Instead of covering up in layers, a single jacket was enough.

Exams were over and I spent my evening cycling around, buying an occasional snack on the way home. On one day, after two hours of riding, my legs ached and I was thirsty for a drink.

As soon as I walked in, my mom greeted me. “There you are! Did you hear what happened? Ms. Gupta’s sister had a heart attack in her sleep. All those preparations to go to the US, and then this happens. But, well, she was pretty old... good thing she didn’t suffer much in the end.”

I stood there, still catching my breath, as my mom went on, “Anyway, come help me get the laundry from outside.”