This year summer was unbearable, so hot and sultry that only the very brave ventured out of doors and then came the monsoons which were ferocious and brought floods and woes, but curiously, the weather seems to be clinging to summer with a stubborn grip. What should have been a season of cool autumnal relief is now hot, muggy torture.
I spent the past couple of weeks in the town that I grew up in, a town so changed that I scarcely recognised it. Yet there were glimpses of the past, a past full of memories of my grandparents and my father.
My childhood now probably belongs in a pastoral novel. It does not even sound believable to me, and I actually lived that life growing up! What a nice, quiet, peaceful childhood it was. Summers were spent playing in the cool rooms and beautiful gardens of my grandparents house with my sister and cousin brother. We spent countless hours laying siege to our male ayah who was our nemesis. Oh the fun we had outfoxing him dear reader! Then evening always brought bowls of chilled mangoes and an array of sherbets, rose one day lemon another and green mango the next. It was a charmed life indeed full of laughter and fun and books.
I find it amazing that I, who have always hated summer, managed to have so much fun during summer as a child. Perhaps it has something to do with the shelter and protective warmth of my family, who are amazing. My mom and her brothers and sisters are a close knit lot and have always worked well as a unit. My father was absorbed into this vastness and was always there especially when we got too rambunctious to handle.
The combination of the summer-like, autumn heat and extended sojourn in my childhood hometown was a sucker punch of nostalgia and I found myself reliving and recollecting some remembered and some forgotten memories. Especially poignant since I got to celebrate my father's Birthday there. It was unexpectedly one of the most touching events of 2017 for me. Oh to be a child again and run barefoot through cool rooms onto flowering gardens!