Summer
This summer seems strangely similar to my childhood days, just when the whirling heat and dust came from nowhere to play along the eucalyptus and mango trees and then vanish just as freakishly, as if its sole mission had been to romance with the curves and bends of the numerous trees of a certain idyllic region of Bengal. The sky would give off a phantom light. We would feel the blaze and know for certain something desirous was headed our way.
I could see the stray dog wagging its tail near a small puddle of water as the first sign of heat struck us. Strong sun charred the tin roofs of the grocery shops. The lanes would be populated with sweating people, speeding up and down the road, brushing against each other as they yelled maniacally. The aroma of barbecued meat, chello kebab and the flavours of bengali cuisines wafted through the burning inferno. In strident white sparks, I could see those vivid faces, loving gestures, longing hearts, looking into my eyes.
Those were the days when I would get tempted to hide inside the cool confines of my grandparents’ house. I would just lie quietly on the floor, stare at the beam, listen to the discordant noise of the ceiling fan and wait for sundown. The occasional breeze from gulmohar and neem trees would turn the room cooler. I would be at peace and read on.
Then perhaps, roused by the sadness in my eyes, a band of pigeons would fall out of the sheltered nest, tumble frantically in the still, sizzling area, sort out their way and streak away across the white sky.
The summer is a lethal combination of intensity, desire, nostalgia and sometimes breathes of strained relationships. It builds its sandcastle, the somewhat dreamy, beloved abode that speaks of love and passions. It drives you insane. Then suddenly on a whim, on days with cold breeze, it collapses the house and disappears.
ENDS
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