Tag Archives: Indian summer

The Summer Rain

Standard

Lightning flashes like swords of Gods, thunder rolls like drum beats. Gray sky turns pale pink with each strike .

Leaves upturn their faces towards the biggest show on Earth. The magic, the drama unfolds.

The parched, dry Earth waits to catch  the beads of water in its palm,  while the winds try to sweep away the gathering gray clouds.

Lightning begins the game of hide and seek with shadows. The rain starts, one drop here, another there and suddenly a downpour.

Streamlets start flowing on the roads, commuters get drenched in seconds. No umbrellas in hands, people rush to take cover.

Puddles fill up immediately, dust washed off, make things muddy. Pedestrians huddle under any shade they can find.

Sometimes hail accompanies, falling  from sky like white  unwrapped sugar candies. Damaging months of farmers’ hardwork in minutes.

And the show suddenly stops…as abruptly as it had begun.

Winds win in blowing away the clouds, thunders move out of earshot. The Sun peaks out and lo! The rain is over.

Sun starts shining with a vengeance. The rainbow silently, colourfully tries to attract attention towards itself.

People resume their commute, dirtier than usual.  Hazards await, stray dogs shake themselves dry, inconsiderate motorist splash water as they speed.

Meanwhile, the clouds start gathering up again, defeating the force of winds. Blocking the Sun once again and the audience waits for an encore.

Advertisements

Summer

Standard

Let’s escape to a place where the water hasn’t yet evaporated from the ponds, lakes and rivers.

Where bare feet can still walk on dew covered blades of grass in the mornings.

 

Let’s go to a place where chirping birds are the only alarms in the mornings​.

Where silence wakes you up as sunlight peeping through the curtains.

 

Let’s escape to that place where peacocks scream and dance to forecast the weather.

Where ants predict if the rain is approaching working untethered.

 

Let’s go to the place where flora blooms announcing the temperature of the day.

Where sunflowers tilt towards the Sun till May.

 

Let’s escape to a place where time is told by the length of the shadows.

Where meal times are dictated by commotion at the gate by the stray dogs, going to and fro.

 

Let’s go to a place where sparrows still exist due to lack of telephone towers.

Where people keep bird feed in bowls outside their homes with water.

 

Let’s go to that place where people converse, sitting together and not “Chat”.

Where people connect through emotions and not internet.

 

Let’s escape to the place where “web” means spiders catching dew drops like diamonds.

Where “net” means fishermen trying to catch fish near islands.

 

To a place where the breeze is still cool at five in the morning.

Where you wait for the day to unfold with great longing.

Summer Vacations in ” Those Days”

Standard

Our childhood fortress was the grandparent’s home. Summer vacations meant all the cousins and their parents assembling at the “Fort” for almost one month.Children of all age groups and not less than two born of each couple. No matter how many rooms were prepared, spare cots had to be adjusted in each room and children mixed and matched with the most patient couples.

Elder girls had their own group who could be heard whispering and giggling throughout the day, teaching the younger ones to either learn discretion about what they heard or be chased from the room. Bollywood movies would be narrated scene by scene in the most astonishing and visual way.

Boys were more tolerant and would talk about school all day long. Some truth mixed with a lot of spicy lies to make the stories grand. The younger ones used to look up to them as heroes.

But the best group was that of the younger kids, brave little soldiers protecting their fortress during afternoons while all were napping. Each afternoon they would arm themselves with swords of papaya branches. They would maintain watch in the brutal sun circling the boundary wall of the Fort. Skin burning, eyes watering. They braved dense jungles of mango trees which used to harbor dangerous monsters in the form of black furry caterpillars in abundance on them. Shuddering and silently throwing them away with the sword if they got stuck to the clothes or hair. looking out for the neighbor’s children and warning them if they even thought of stealing a single mango from the Fort’s trees.

They were the ones subjected to most scrutiny, even an inch of height would make them objects of wonderment to elders, how they had grown? How they had started looking like their parents or how they did not look like their parents but some ancestor.

The endless visits to different households. Some very boring and quiet homes, where people were so well disciplined that while talking also their homes seemed quiet. We just waited for that moment when all the chatting would pause and snacks served. The restraint that needed to be displayed and the much-awaited permission given by mom’s eyes that we could go for the second helping.

Some households cheerful and sophisticated with peels of laughter arising from one and all. All this becoming truly worthwhile when the gifts or money were distributed amongst the children at the end of the visit. Adding the savings to the piggie banks. Oh ! how summers made the children rich.

The food, the variety of desserts, the never ending mango eating sessions. Grandmother never raising her voice at anyone and controlling one and all while mothers going berserk, not being able to control even two.The Arabian Nights storytelling sessions by the grandfather.

The evenings had very tired and quiet sessions with television when no one could utter a word in the presence of the grandfather while he watched Krishi Darshan ( a farming program). For after his retirement he had started taking interest in farming and grew award winning vegetables in his front yard. We could not increase the speed of the fan as he being an engineer, told us sternly that the sound got dispersed.

Nights were peaceful quiet and gave the satisfaction as if we were resting after winning the whole world.Sleep came easy and quickly, dreaming about the day’s experiences which were as precious as the most expensive gems…..while our grandmom would get up in the middle of the night and check all rooms to make sure everything and everyone were fine.

The first Summer rain.

Standard

Scorching Sun dries and makes brittle the leaves, Earth starts tearing up like honeycomb.
Birds fly high and low to find  just a few drops of water to quench their thirst. Stray animals find shade under the trees and in  abandoned half built houses.People  try to stay indoors to be safe from the brutal heat.
…and then the clouds are summoned,  vast expanse of sky turns grey, air turns cool, wind picks up speed.Dust swirls make small whirlwinds with dried leaves, the wind chimes start tinkling rhythmically,  trees start swaying to the music of dust filled breeze,eyes are turned towards the sky, in anticipation of that first drop.
…and when the first  drops fall and hit the dried earth, the smell of wet earth intoxicates the senses like thousand  sirens. The drops turn to a gentle shower, a drizzle, sky makes noise to declare freedom from heat, lightening is like celebration of nature.Dust settles, plants get a well deserved wash, roads start shining. Dogs in the neighbourhood start barking, going round and round in circles with their tongues sticking out.
People come out of the homes for no reason at all, conversations start budding.Children start dancing, screaming, getting wet, soaked,
drenched.Grown ups also stretch their arms to feel the rain on their palms as if they have never touched water before.
The first shower of summer is like magic, magic which leaves us  desiring for more, to experience more, to enjoy more, to feel more, to live more .

image

Indian Summer

Standard

This painting depicts lazy, hot, Indian summer. Though it was painted in an era when coolers and air conditioners were rare, even today in villages and small towns people who work outdoors rest under the shades of trees.

Farmers eat  their lunch brought from home by their wives under trees. They stretch their legs for a while before restarting their difficult  task of growing food. Achieving their goals with or without the help of modern farming tools and machines.

image