It's cold. Not cold enough for it to snow, but enough for rain to be unpleasant. Clothes take forever to dry on the three clotheslines on our veranda. The stone floors intensify the chill that permeates my thick hiking socks. Despite the geyser-heated water, bathing is something I don't look forward to.
The warmest I feel is in the morning, when I walk to the gym. At 7 am (ok, 7:20) the air is crisp and the streets are mostly devoid of traffic and noise. A few shops open lazily. Fueled by piles of trash, mini bon-fires crop up every few meters. Rikshawallahs wait patiently for their first rides of the day, bundled up in frayed shawls that probably don't do any good.
It's cold. The hardest part of the day is leaving my thick, warm comforter. As Delhi thermometers plunge lower than those of Simla's hill stations, the emotional bond with my blankets deepens to disturbing levels. Don't leave me they plead. Stay cozy and immerse yourself in fleecy bliss. Their call overpowers my numbed sensory nerves and I succumb, sitting in my blanket for the majority of the day. Because it's really cold.