I really want to write something. I don’t know what to write! Should I finish those stories that I had begun? Or should I write a poem? Today, am in a different mood. Its summers again. That time when days are so long and energies sap by afternoon. I seem to be drifting back into time: years and years back, when summers meant only one thing, a month long break at my Grandparents. They had a huge rambling house in Lucknow and each corner held a story to be explored. My biggest terror used to be the spiderweb infested small space on the staircase, where they used to store old newspapers. I would be as thrilled to try and climb up that stair as I would be scared of doing so. Another fascinating thing used to be this old log lying on the terrace with a huge fungi growing on it. Though I am disgusted by these things, I would be drawn to it too. Days would melt into nights of sheer bliss. And of course the endless hours of reading books without interruption. No one to stop you and no duty calls.
I don’t know how many hours I have spent imagining things and writing stories and then reading them out to the elders around, complete with illustrations. I can still remember those indulgences. And the people. Though some of those people are gone and so is the house, the memories remain.
The summer brings all this back to me. As I sit at my desk and my mind wanders, I wish those days back. Was it the innocence and freshness of childhood or the warmth of the people or the endless summer days, I don’t know. I think if I went around asking people about their childhood summers we would just end up with a ‘summer of nostalgia’.
Sometimes I think school-breaks ruin us. I have yet to come across so many holidays in my adult life. Or maybe they let us enjoy and rest till we can, before life hits us in the full and we start taking place of the adults that once were.
Yes, the circle of life and summer.
- Nostalgia (counselinglhood.wordpress.com)