In summer

It’s the summer again. 

Somehow I can’t seem to muster up Olaf’s enthusiasm. 

But of course, that’s because I’m melting. 

Inane weather discussions aside, what’s the summer about for me?

Mangoes. For one thing. Single handedly make the summer worth it. 

And chilled grapes. Of course. Even with the recent curious experience of eating them with a long toothpick. Who eats grapes like that? Apparently a lot of people. 

Summer doesn’t seem to foster creativity though. I’ve been trying. Lots of laziness, fatigue, and apparently book reading. 

Part of my annual summer vacation treat this year, 

I’m finally reading A Brave New World, a birthday gift from my mother last year. 

Side note.

Every patient tells a story, my mother’s excellent choice for this year. Do try it. 

Mother’s day, of course. Of course.

Both my parent’s birthdays and their wedding anniversary fall in the summer. Much excitement and planning, for sure. 

Aside from all this and the regular excitement of just good old holidays- best part of the year- what else do we have?

Nostalgia, it seems. The heat and dust appear to be an emotional pair. 

Long summer vacations split between grandparent’s homes. Days playing traditional games such as pallanguli, nondi and cricket with a plastic bat. Estate picnics, lunch outside. Art classes- though I have no talent, I assure you. Lazy afternoons, brilliant food. Recently, much air conditioning. 

And most important of all, the books. So many books. My yearly allowance of one new book at landmark per year. Always a highlight. My mom’s books. My uncle’s books. My grandfather’s books. My books. Birthday presents. Books dug up from the outhouse. So many books. All kinds of them. 

Come summer and it was time to fly away on the wings of imagination. The faraway tree, The wishing chair, St. Claire’s, all Enid blyton classics. A lot of actual classics. Prince and the pauper, Tom Sawyer, Treasure island, Little women. And when I was older and stopped being stubborn and stupid, the magic of Harry Potter. Well, if we’re being chronological, it started with Cinderella, and Little red riding hood, but never mind. Some torturous Jane Austen, Wuthering heights, the one book I detest, because it was sad and evil- no offence to anybody. 

Growing up some more, classics some more, courtesy my mother. 

The prisoner of Zenda, the melodrama and misunderstanding of Gone with the wind. 

So many memories. Intertwined with all these books. Think summer and I think books, maybe outside, maybe inside, wherever I was. Think sunshine and that beloved book smell, heat and dust and the comfort of grandma’s cooking. 

Summers well spent, they were all. 

Do suggest more books for this one. 

Signing out. 

And through my looking glass, I see…

Well, a green wall. But that’s not the point. I’ve been sitting here, for an hour. Dreaming. To be accurate, day dreaming. Shall we say, lost in my own world, so I don’t feel so lazy. Outwardly, I’m just sitting here. But boy, is that a deception. My mind is whizzing  past everything around me. My mind, is on the future. To be mysterious, my mind is where even I cannot go. Until tomorrow, at the very least.

So what is it that has me in this peculiar – but very comfortable, mind- mood? I, am looking forward. I’m looking forward – to lunch, for one thing. But also, next Sunday. Next Sunday, my life will be completely different. No exams to look at on my timetable and worry about. No me with an inner monologue, because I’ll have better things to do. No more dragging myself out of bed in the morning for college, because hurray, the holidays are here. Now I feel, very justifiably, that this requires more emphasis.

My holidays. Glorious days off, when I can go home. Be with my family. When I can have good food. When I can study only if I want to. Ha. As if. Where I can wear clothes that are more suitable for the heat than my three piece churidhar with a white coat. Those white coats. Lip curl. Made for baking in the Chennai heat. Next Sunday, I’ll be looking forward to above described heaven.

Speaking of looking forward, Mangoes. Yes. Capitalised. They’re the only reason I think of summer without an accompanying murderous grunt. A very tired grunt, mind. This heat saps the life out of you. All I want to do, is curl up and hibernate. What’s it called in summer again?

Believe me, if you think of a summer in India in terms of all the life and colours and exotic fruit? You’re in for disillusionment. Its hot. Its dry. Its dusty. And its sticky. No heavenly light summer showers for you. There are days my book sticks to my hand when I’m studying. I’m throwing in Chennai humidity, which will account for this and a hundred other infuriating things. I can’t say anything negative about the fruit, though. Grapes and mangoes, absolutely.

Look at me, reduced to talking about the weather. Hi, nice to meet you. We’re currently making small talk, you and I.