The Fireplace Effect

Winters arrive gently, yet they make their presence known in the most intimate ways. In the way the breeze feels sharper on the skin, in the reflex to pull our sweaters a little tighter, and the quiet urge to seek warmth, be it from our stovetop, a cup of chai, or a person who feels like home. There is a certain stillness in winter, a pause that asks us to slow down and sit with our thoughts. I love winters deeply, even though, like everyone else, I complain when the cold becomes a little too much. On those days, I wait for the sun to come out and bless me with its sunshine. But even then, my love for winters never truly fades.

Perhaps it’s the joy of layering up—jackets, scarves, all coming together like soft armor against the cold. Or maybe it’s the permission winters give us to indulge without guilt. Another spoonful of gajar ka halwa, an extra gulab jamun soaked in syrup, because winter somehow makes indulgence feel necessary, even well deserved. 

Every morning begins with a steaming cup of chai, the warmth seeping into my palms and slowly waking me up. It is the only reason I willingly leave my cozy bed and part ways with my beloved hot water bottle. Some comforts are temporary, but chai in winter feels eternal.

What truly stirs nostalgia in me, though, is the arrival of winter nights and the lighting of the fireplace. There is something almost magical about sitting around a fire. The flickering flames seem to invite conversations, pulling words out of us that we didn’t even know we were holding back. Stories flow easily, laughter sounds warmer, and sometimes, out of nowhere, someone begins to sing an old, forgotten song. The fire listens patiently, crackling softly, as if encouraging us to keep going.

As peanuts roast and the flames leap higher, I find myself observing everyone around me. As the hours stretch late into the night, my father returns to his army stories, carrying us with him into another time. My mother slips into memories of my childhood, her voice soft, her eyes glowing with nostalgia. My husband sits beside me, holding me close, staring into the fire with a quiet smile, as though the flames are speaking directly to him. My friends chatting about some happy incident that happened once upon a time in their life. And me? I drift away into my own little universe. An over-thinker at heart, my thoughts wander freely. The stars above seem brighter, dancing to a rhythm only I can hear. The warmth of the people around me feels like the softest cushion, and the laughter behind me turns into a melody I wish I could store away forever.

Fire is meant to be feared, it burns, it smokes, and it stings the eyes. Yet on nights like these, it feels like a friend. A silent companion that keeps us warm, keeps us sane, and keeps us close. Winters hold a special place in my heart, especially those slow, unhurried nights spent around a fire, where time forgets to rush. And when the flames finally die down and the cold begins to creep back in, the warmth stays, tucked into our memories, wrapped around our hearts, and waiting patiently for the next winter to bring us back together again.