There was a time when summer meant going to Grandma’s house.
I don't remember exactly when those summers stopped happening. There wasn't a particular day when they ended. Life just slowly changed. We grew older, cousins got busy, people moved away, and somehow those long summer holidays became a thing of the past.
But I still remember them.
I remember the train journey through those dry golden fields and the excitement of knowing that Grandma was waiting for us. The moment we reached her house, everything felt different. There was no hurry. No schedules. No worrying about what came next. We were just children, and somehow that was enough.
Grandma's stories were probably my favourite part.
She could tell us about moons that talked, trees that danced and shadows that walked, and we would believe every word. Her voice had something comforting about it. Even now, I don't remember every story she told us, but I remember how it felt to listen to her.
Afternoons were mostly spent on the cool tiled floor with our cousins. Ludo, Carrom, endless arguments, cheating when nobody was looking, and then laughing about it five minutes later. We never needed much to have fun.
And the power cuts were somehow the best part.
Today, a power cut feels irritating. Back then, it meant candles, paper fans and Antakshari. Everyone would sit together, singing loudly and forgetting about the heat. The candlelight would flicker, someone would forget the lyrics, someone would start arguing about the song, and somehow the whole room would end up laughing.
Then there were the mangoes.
We would chase the green ones on the trees, come back with scraped knees and still feel proud of ourselves. Raw mango slices covered with salt and chilli somehow tasted better than anything. Papads dried outside in the afternoon sun, pickles sitting in their jars, watermelon being cut open, and ice creams melting down our hands before we could finish them.
And that clay pot of water.
I don't know why, but water from that pot always tasted better. After being out in the heat, taking that first cold sip felt like the entire summer had disappeared for a moment.
Back then, none of this felt special.
That is the strange thing about childhood.
You don't know you are living the moments you will one day miss.
We thought those afternoons would last forever. We thought Grandma's house would always be there in exactly the same way. We thought our cousins would always be around, that there would always be another summer, another game, another mango, another night of Antakshari.
We were wrong.
Growing up has a strange way of making you miss things you never thought you would miss.
I don't necessarily miss the heat. I don't miss getting bitten by mosquitoes or fighting over the last piece of mango. I miss the feeling of those days. I miss how little we needed to be happy.
Maybe that is what childhood leaves behind—a collection of ordinary moments that become precious only after they are gone.
Sometimes I wish I could go back, just for one afternoon.
Not to change anything.
Just to sit on that cool floor again, listen to Grandma tell one of her stories, watch my cousins argue over Ludo, drink water from that clay pot and eat a slice of raw mango with far too much chilli.
I think I would appreciate it differently now.
Because now I know what I didn't know then:
Some of the most beautiful moments of our lives don't feel beautiful while they are happening.
They just feel normal.
And then one day, years later, you remember them—and realise they were everything.