Monday Musings 283 – The Lost Summer

Monday Musings 283 – The Lost Summer

The summer as looked down from the 15^th floor window, from behind the artificially maintained temperature is just not the same as experienced on the ground floor of dusty mohallas of mofussil India. Of course I am indulging in the most virile or the most impotent of human activity, depending upon what kind of use it is put to, called nostalgia.

Summer in the heartland of Indian plains, away from either from the cool indulgence of the mountains or the moderating caress of the shores, can be oppressive. I never found it oppressive then, when the notion of an AC had yet not corrupted my comforts. More than three decades ago there was poetry in even the heat. It had its own rhythm, its own festivities, its own celebration.

The mornings would often take birth in the ever cool flowing waters of the stream nearby which would end with the Bael (Bengal quince)l sherbet done gloriously through the thin cotton cloth. As the clock reached 10, the world would start to recede. The charpoy beneath the mango tree would come out for a few hours. The sunlight would shimmer through the thick maze of leaves, not tormenting but ever present – the heat not yet violent but threatening to be so. The crows and the cuckoo would be active in fairly loud conversations without a care for who might be evesdropping.

The mother would offer thin butter milk made from the slightly tangy curd of the night before taken out from the earthen pot. The afternoons would be a tussle between angry parents on one hand, who would want a reprive from the long days – and the recalcitrant children who would want to use the peace to creative use. Tiptoeing to sneak out to go back to the fields, climb up trees or do absolutely nothing was a daily attempt – many times caught red handed, after which it would be difficult to ascertain what contributed to hot cheeks more, the weather or the slaps.

The evenings were often long hours of running in the dry fields which would now be open to alternative uses before the next crop is sowed. Playing indigenous games in the rough terrain of erstwhile paddy fields is an experience difficult to imagine for those who have not done it. Marbles were played with gusto and an increase in the evening count would make the day very well spent. The joys of kite flying would only be matched by the joy of the process of making the kites and sharpening the threads. The kite making often happened in the cool shade of a fruit that would be used as adhesive (i don’t remember its Indian or English name any longer but never seen it outside Jharkhand ever), failing which fresh boiled rice be used as an adhesive(ingenuity and jugaad at its best!!)

The wilderness of Jharkhand has much benevolence – the roads, fields and the desolate lands is laden with tamarind, custard apple, jujube, jamun, and indigenous varieties of mangoes. Summer was associated with a band of vagabonds going in search of these, aim at the fruits with stones and then admire our own accuracy as the fruit would fall down. The spoils would of course be shared. Sometimes the tree would belong to some household and hence the entire act would acquire the seriousness of a covert operation – a kind of surgical strike in the middle of the hot afternoon when everyone would be sleeping. For the longest time I thought mangoes are to be sucked rather than cut and eaten because of the ones we got there – thin peeled, juicy and syrupy. A bucket full of mangoes a person would normally not raise eyebrows.

The bath would often be at the well and the mother would sprinkle Nycil (remember that?) quite liberally.

Summer nights would often also be absolutely still but starry. The roofs would become community bedrooms and it on those still nights when even whispers would sound stereophonic, the children would giggle helplessly and without reasons. There is great joy in community laughter particularly when the only reason is to irritate parents who want you to sleep. Mosquitoes added to the charm. No one had yet heard of dengue, chickegunia and having malaria was like an annual pilgrimage – everyone had it.

Summer then was a season that i experienced – and so did everyone else around me. It was embraced like life, with all its folly and all its prickliness. I experience the summer now from a distance, from the 15^th floor window pane, from the temperature controlled comfort of the room - as if its someone else’s summer. My summer is lost. Not sure if i will get it back ever – and even if i do get not sure if i will enjoy it as much.