Longing For Summer

By Kruthi Deepthi Lakkaraju

Summer.

In her view, summer is not a season but a state of mind.

It carries the only good memories she has

during her six and a half decades

of breathing on this planet.

Exhausted and weak, she dozes off into an afternoon nap,

with a faint smile hesitating to appear on her lips.

Perhaps she realises that the imminent dreams – no matter how short –

take her back to the breezy summers of her childhood.

Reclined in the armchair in her cramped apartment, amid the noises of

horns and people shouting in the ongoing traffic,

audible through the closed windows,

she transports into another time: blissful and much calmer.

Even as the chilly, conditioned air hits her face,

all she feels is the summer heat on her skin

and pebbles pricking her bare feet as she waddles

through the muddy roads of her village,

while she gives a piggyback ride to a younger cousin.

The sweet and succulent taste of the wild Indian dates

still lingers on her tongue, and she smacks her lips, thinking

how the superior-quality, imported Arabian dates

that her children buy are no match.

Roughhousing throughout the day, playing gully cricket

with the boys in the neighbourhood of her grandparents’ house,

she returns home at sunset;

her striking black, oily braids turning brown with dirt.

An hour later, having received the broken record of the archaic rules

on how girls are supposed to behave, she gears up

for the mandatory evening bath by the well.

Her eyes widen at the sight of the squeaky pulley

that looks like it can break at any moment,

as the rope carrying the bucket of water digs into her palms.

She pours the water recklessly

over her fully-clothed self and now open hair,

and repeats these motions seven-odd times, cursing herself

that she will face a long night of sneezing bouts.

But the spicy mango pickle,

mixed with hot rice and ghee, rolled into tiny balls,

waiting to be served by her grandma herself,

to each of the kids, until the stomachs fill up,

ensures that there is no such tragedy.

The nine-foot mat laid outside the veranda provides ample space for the children

who don’t go to bed right away but usually stay up until after midnight,

scaring one another with ghost stories,

only to be silenced by their parents’ scolding.

She doesn’t know when she falls asleep under the starlit sky

but promptly wakes up as the birds start chirping,

perched amongst the jasmine climbers.

The warm early morning sun rays kiss her cheeks

as she opens her eyes to take in the view of

proud coconut trees standing tall and towering over the gate.

Is this heaven?

Startled, she shifts in her chair with a splitting headache.

Looking around, she recognises where she is

and proceeds to deal with the noise emerging from the hall.

It is the doorbell, and her grandkids are home from their coaching classes;

both hunched over with heavy bags,

heads bent into their respective smartphones, munching on snacks,

half-ready for their online courses for the night.

But it is summer!

She sighs silently and helplessly,

pitying the poor souls, robbed of their childhood.

By Kruthi Deepthi Lakkaraju