The Fog and the Milk Run

The year begins the way most things begin here: quietly, with the kettle taking its own time.

Priya stands in the courtyard with her shawl pulled up to her ears, watching the hand pump drip once—twice—like it is thinking before it speaks. The fog is thick enough that the neem tree looks like a smudged charcoal sketch against the sky. Somewhere beyond the wall, a scooter coughs and refuses to become a scooter for a full ten seconds.

Inside, Sunita has already set the kettle on. The gas flame makes a steady, patient sound. It is the kind of morning that asks you to keep your hands busy.

“Doodh le aa,” her mother says, not loudly, as if loudness will crack the fog. Go get milk.

Priya nods and slips her feet into worn sandals. The courtyard tiles are cold even through the rubber. She picks up the cloth bag from the hook—its handles slightly stretched from years of being reliable—and checks her phone for the time. The screen lights her thumb a pale blue.

New voice notes blink in the family WhatsApp group. Someone has sent a glittery “Happy New Year” sticker with fireworks that look too loud for this weather.

She doesn’t open them. Not yet. First milk.

At the gate, she pauses. On days when her father comes back from a night shift, the latch always feels different in her hand—like the house is trying to stay asleep a little longer. She pulls it softly, and the street meets her.

The lane is familiar and strange at once. In fog, distances change their minds. A wall is either two steps away or twenty. A dog’s collar bell is a whole story, but the dog itself is just a shadow.

Priya walks with small, careful steps, not because she is afraid, but because the ground has its own opinions in winter—damp patches, a surprise pebble, a slick bit where someone has rinsed the courtyard the night before. Her breath makes a thin cloud that immediately disappears into a larger one.

From a nearby house, someone is playing a morning bhajan low enough to be mostly bass and devotion. A pressure cooker whistles like a scolding auntie. Somewhere farther, a train horn floats through the fog, stretched and softened.

New year, she thinks, but the same sounds.

At the corner, the chai stall is already awake. Chai Uncle is there, wrapped in a sweater and a scarf, hands moving in practiced circles. The stall’s bulb glows like a small moon.

He sees her and lifts his chin. “Priya बिटिया, naya saal,” he says—Priya, bitiya (child)—happy new year—and the way he says it makes it feel less like a greeting and more like a blessing you can carry in your pocket.

“Naya saal mubarak,” she answers—happy new year—and then adds, because politeness is a habit that keeps the world running smoothly, “Thand bahut hai aaj.” It’s very cold today.

“Arre, thand toh hai,” he agrees—oh yes, it’s cold, it really is—as if cold weather is a person everyone knows. “Chai?”

She looks at the cloth bag in her hand. “Doodh leke aati hoon. Phir,” she says. After I get the milk. Then.

He waves her on. The steel kettle behind him steams, making the fog taste faintly of ginger.

The small kirana shop that sells milk packets has its shutter half up. The shopkeeper—sleep in his eyes, a muffler around his neck—counts sachets into a crate.

“Kitna?” he asks without looking up—how many?

“Do,” Priya says—two. Two packets. Her family is small; their needs are not, but the milk requirement is simple.

She takes the packets; they are cold and damp, like they’ve been pulled from a refrigerator that doesn’t fully trust electricity. The shopkeeper tells her the price. She tries UPI out of habit—her thumb knows the steps—but the loading circle spins, spins, and then sulks.

“Network,” she says, as if the word itself is an apology.

“Network,” the shopkeeper repeats. He has heard every excuse and every truth and has stopped caring about the difference.

Priya digs into her notebook—her real one, the one she carries when she’s not carrying books. A small fold of cash is tucked between pages. She peels off a note and hands it over, feeling for a second the weight of what money means: not numbers, but choices.

On the walk back, she holds the milk packets against her forearm so they don’t swing and slap her leg. The fog has shifted; it’s a little thinner near the open fields, where the air has more room to be itself. A few boys are already out with a cricket bat, as if cold is a challenge, not a fact.

She passes the chai stall again. Chai Uncle calls out, “Ab?”—now?

Priya laughs—quietly, because the day still feels like it is sleeping. “Ab,” she agrees—now.

He pours chai into a steel tumbler and slides it across. She wraps both hands around it. The heat climbs into her fingers slowly, the way good things do.

“2026,” Chai Uncle says, looking pleased with the number. “Dekhna, achha hoga.” You’ll see, it’ll be good.

Priya takes a sip. The ginger bites; the sugar follows; the tea settles. “Haan,” she says—yes—and it comes out as a maybe and a hope together.

When she reaches home, the gate clicks behind her like a final punctuation mark.

Inside, the house is waking in layers. Arjun is a shape under a blanket on the charpai, hair sticking up as if he has been arguing with sleep and winning. Sunita stands at the stove, pouring tea leaves into the boiling milk with the same certainty she uses to measure everything else.

Her father is not back yet.

Priya sets the milk packets on the counter and washes her hands at the hand pump. The water is cold enough to make her gasp, which immediately makes Sunita glance over with the exact expression that says: I told you it’s cold.

“I’ll make chai also,” Priya offers, reaching for the stubborn kettle as if it is a pet that requires coaxing.

Sunita’s mouth curves. “Tu chai banayegi?” You’ll make tea? The question is teasing, but affectionate.

Priya lifts her chin. “Haan. Naya saal hai.” Yes. It’s the new year.

As the kettle heats, her phone buzzes again. This time she checks.

Sana has sent a voice note: loud, cheerful, full of morning. “Oye, uth gayi? Happy New Year! Aaj kuch plan hai? Kal se college ke form ka last date suna hai—check kar lena haan.” It’s basically: Hey, you’re up? Happy New Year! Any plan today? I heard tomorrow is the last date for the college form—check it, okay?

Priya presses the phone to her ear and listens twice, because Sana speaks as if words are running late for a bus. The mention of forms makes a small knot appear in her stomach. The BA admit cards in the plastic folder. The fees. The cyber café’s printer that jams when you are already stressed.

She doesn’t answer immediately.

Instead, she pours tea into a steel tumbler, sets one aside for her father—always—and carries another to Sunita. The steam fogs her eyelashes.

Then she goes to the room where her notebook lives. Not the cash notebook—another one: the one with squared pages and a cover that used to be bright blue before it learned the color of fingers.

On the first page, she writes the date carefully: 1/1/2026. The slashes are neat. She writes “2026” again below it, a little larger, and pauses.

Outside, the lane is still wrapped in fog, but it is a softer fog now, lit from inside by the idea of morning.

A bicycle bell rings, close and sudden. A neighbor’s gate creaks. Life continues, not dramatically—just steadily.

Priya turns the page and, without making it into a speech, writes a small list:

• Call Sana back.
• Ask Sharma Ji about the form print.
• Check fees date.

She hears the front latch again—this time the specific, careful click of her father coming in. Voices drop automatically in the house, as if the walls have taught them.

Rakesh’s steps are quiet. He smells faintly of dust and night air. Sunita sets his tea in his hands like it is the most ordinary miracle.

Priya watches him from the doorway for a moment. He looks tired, but not defeated. He takes a sip, closes his eyes briefly, and the whole house seems to exhale with him.

“Happy New Year,” Arjun mutters from the charpai without opening his eyes, and it is both lazy and sincere.

Priya smiles. It is not a big smile. It fits the size of the morning.

“Happy New Year,” she says back, and the words settle into the room the way the warmth from tea settles into fingers—slowly, quietly, and exactly where it is needed.