Summer

This seems to be the season for remembrance.

Gulmohars are blooming; those bright, alive, orange bursts of colour are a sight for sore eyes. They remind me, and others here, of how we used to invent vampire nails and fangs out of the gulmohar petals and run madly around the house announcing the descent of Countess Dracula (No, that wasn't me! I was Pirate Snaggletooth. Rawr.) in red cloaks fashioned of Amma's saris.

And then there were mangoes. This, back home, is that glorious season when all mango trees (and every house in the neighbourhood had at least one) erupt into fruits and perfumy blooms. Daily schedules were invariably characterised by forays into neighbours' orchards, armed with stones and conspicuous long sticks, and down would come some two dozen mangoes. The next few seconds would be spent in frantically gathering the mangoes and rushing out, almost always chased by irate 'ungles' and their 'aalsashian' Tommys. And breakfast, lunch and dinner always, always had mangoes - mangakoottaan, mango pickles, manga pachadi, fruit salad... You name it; we had it. Dad's favourite summer refrain was: "There is always space for one more mango."

There were always sudden, unexpected showers too, as though Earth herself felt too hot to not want some cooling off. Always towards the end of the day, and always on the hottest days, we were caught unawares in raggedy outfits while out on on ruffianly cycling trips. The rain always cheered us up extra, and made us living horrors for Amma to deal with.

***

This is very much a nostalgic post. I really do miss those days. Not because "they will never be back again", but because those great, comforting grandfathers of trees are gone now. There're huge buildings of yuppies looking to move to the suburbs now - the orchards and the traditional ponds are long gone. And so, it seems, are the rains. They're never predictably unexpected anymore. They just come and go, like postmen on the street, leaving traces of their presence, but never coming in.

Those are the things that aren't going to come back - those trees and the open field and the green, unchoked rain and the smell of the wet, red earth.

I mourn their passing. And laugh about the fun we had then.