Shillong was really cold at this time of the year. A walk past any row of houses would send fumes of burning coal into the nose-that comforting, slightly toxic smell which was reassuring in the still winters. It seemed the leaves of trees would make a crackling groan when the breeze lightly blew in the evening. The hens were nestled in their coops and the puppies were huddled on old sacks, hiding away their creamy bellies.
Author: Harpreet Vohra
Harpreet Vohra teaches at Punjab University Regional Centre, Ludhiana. Her PhD is on Margaret Atwood. She writes on North-East India, Children’s Literature and Indian Writing in English. She is from Shillong.