‘Tis But a Season

summer time

 

Summertime sadness…in the morning light as I drive my way to work, rolling down the window, take a breather…the morning heat already spicing up the rush-hour traffic…it suddenly dawns to me that summer is made of sensory confetti.

The childhood vacation days, ruled and bound homework workbooks neatly tucked away in selves and over tables, smell of my grandmother who is visiting or we used to visit during summer days, the fragrant soap suds on bathroom showers…something unique like prickly heat talcum powder, Kissan Orange Squash with its dotty glass bottles and golden-yellow caps, summer invitation where, we could sip Gold Spot and looking behind all those caps to get a “jungle book” stick-on…Doordarshan(the only television channel)  time with “Spiderman” on Saturdays and Epic Tales on Sundays. Ah! Sunday comfort lunch…the aroma of Chicken Curry wafting from kitchen doors…tinkering of Kwality Ice-Cream Man….the haunting far-cry was a soothsayer to the little perched soul…..walking barefeet on the dewy green lawn…my watered kitchen garden with smell of freshly sprinkled tomato leaves.summertime

Afternoon bed prisming by reading Amar Chitra Katha. Ah Summer! when evenings smelled of Jhal-Muri and flowering “rangoon-creepers”. The power cut on scorching heat….getting respite on cane-chairs and laid down rattan mats on terrace. My mother sprinkling water on her Hasnuhana (Cestrum Nocturum….I have googled it ). Dad strolling on the winding roads of bungalow…the palm leaf hand fan. Summer heat so heady that make mangoes ripen underneath those jute rice-sacks, smell of orange papaya and hoards of ants gorging on it!!

summertime2

Long sullen nights….reading “Arabian Nights”, moonbeams sipping through the window pelmet and lacy curtains. Mosquito nets drifting with the ‘midsummer’s night dream’ melody of faraway land.

  
About the author
Ritu is one who lives in the no-man's-land halfway between dreams and reality. She scribbles and dabbles in the alchemy of transforming the cynicism of existence into optimism of words as they are better of felt than understood. These words are not pictures of your life, nor they are cryptic or pretentious. She bathes with reality not in silence but through the web of words as she realizes life is only a dialogue of nature.

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