It starts with a smell.

Dry leaves. Smoke from a fire somewhere you can't see. Dew settling on dust.

You step out one November morning and something is different. It isn't cold yet. It's just the idea of cold.

Winter is coming to the north.

The first thing that changes is the day itself. All summer the sun hung around until seven. Now it's gone by five. You look up from your desk, and the light that should still be there has already left.

Nobody announces it. One evening you just notice the day has gotten shorter.

So you go upstairs while the light is still there.

Across northern India, people climb back to their terraces. The old chatai comes out from wherever it spent the summer. It gets dusted off and rolled out. You sit on it with a cup of hot chai (coffee, in my case. Everyone else sticks to chai) and let the afternoon sun do what it does best.

The cold is just right. It isn't shawl cold yet. It's the kind where you hold the cup with both hands, even though you don't have to.

That same terrace has a long season ahead of it. By December and January the sky above it fills with kites. Strings get tangled and someone shouts "kaate" two roofs over, all building up to Khichdi and Makar Sankranti. Right now it's quiet. It's just you, the chatai and the sun.

Then evening comes early, and the cold follows it.

The rajais come down from the top shelf. Everyone builds a little home inside one. You've got the chai on one side and your phone on the other, and you don't plan on going anywhere. Getting out of bed becomes a negotiation.

It feels like the whole region slowing down for a while. The work still happens, just at a softer pace.

In a few weeks the fog rolls in and everyone starts complaining.

But not yet.

The best season in the north isn't winter. It's the few weeks when winter is still on its way.