Redolent Summer
Amidst the rhythmic chiming of the wall clock, and the chaotic mutters and murmers among my fellow pupils that slipped through my ears, I drowsily leaned over the desk before me, falling asleep in a moment and uneasily waking up in the other. My vision resembled that of a dilated eye, for the figures that moved across me appeared to infuse into one another to form a canopy of colors. It was half past noon, as we awaited the teacher, Ms. Priya, to arrive for the attendance check, post-lunch. Students who had arrived were settling into their seats, gradually. Some, who were still hungry, were chewing their tie off its fabric while drooling. It was my first day of school after a long eventful summer. As the cool stream of air that periodically diffused through the window beside me, eased me in that somnolent state, those moments of summer, filled with joyful exuberance began flashing into my mind. I gently pulled my arms and legs closer to me to feel warmer as I began reliving those memories, savoring my mother's nourishing fragrance emanating from hand-kerchief that she pinned to my pocket.
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May 20th it was, when my 3rd grade exams ended and I was delighted at the thought of spending the summer along side my cousins in the hometown of my ancestors, a remote village in AP. The next morning, my mother escorted me to our 2500 sq.ft ancestral mud house erected nearly a century ago. It was not gated as were many in rural India, then. A small patio resembling a lane, separated the main house from the shed for the livestock. A couple of bullock-carts were stationed in the lane, next to our car, a spectacle alien to most urban folk, today. My mother chased me as I dropped my bags in an instant and ran towards those carts to cling onto one of their wooden wheels and mount the cart, only to trip over the first rock ahead of me and end up with a bruised hand. Those were the first of several bruises I had over the summer, some of which were my mother's compliments in the honor of my mischief.
A typical day would begin as freshly melted dew drops sprinkled over us by an arbor of tress, that gently swayed in chilly and calm morning breeze, would caress us off a pleasant slumber on the roof top. Though my eye lids drooped, I could witness the canopy of blue shades assume the dark sky amidst the warbling of birds as if to greet the first rays of the morning. Settling ourselves atop one of the carts, me and my cousins contested each other by blowing hot air into the mist while sipping the simmering hot coffee. We then uneasily awaited our turn to bathe by swinging stones into the overhead water tank which supplied hot water. Men in traditional regalia, a silk dhoti and uttaryam, and bearing Tiruman and Srichoornam (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Srivaishnava_Urdhva_Pundra) on their foreheads were preparing themselves for Pratahsamdhya (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandhyavandanam). Women were occupied among themselves while adorning each other in six or nine yards madsar saree and ornaments. My stomach was beginning to growl as I hoped that one of them would hear it and address my concern already for given my daily routine, I was just a bath, an hour of parayanam and another hour of dhyanam away from my breakfast. As I heard "Pongal for breakfast", I was slavering as the glimpses of hot gelatinous pongal, with black pepper, curry leaves, finely chopped pieces of ginger and chillies sauted in frizzling ghee, and generously garnished with coriander leaves, served with mango thokku, flashed into my mind. This time, I heard a few more growls but that was not from just me.
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During dhyana, I, seated a fore the holy idol of the Lord Laxmi Sametha Sri Narasimha, was focused at nothing but the feet of the divine lord, where rested the whole world including the copper vessel containing pongal, capped by a banana leaf. At end of this timeless wait, I heard a voice that said, "carry the container to the kitchen", which I instantly recognized. It was of my uncle, that hitherto daunted me sounded sweeter than honey for the pongal was ready to be served in plates to everyone, from the kitchen. However, my glittering expression soon turned gloomy as, I, being the most obedient of all my cousins, was asked by the ladies in the kitchen to assist them. I was concerned for two reasons. One, those who served had to wait until others were done and two, the pongal could be in shortage for the former. Nevertheless, I conceded to their request, rather dejectedly for my uncle was around. I heard the ladies murmur, "he is a sincere and an innocent kid". I wondered what sincerity and innocence did they find in the annoyed and somber expression on my face.
_________________________________________________________________
Post lunch, all the kids would gather in the capacious backyard of the house and pounce onto the stacks of hay heaped for fodder to impersonate the characters from Ramayana, which was our most beloved past-time. Arching out bows from the sticks of Neem that were meant for for brushing teeth, emptying broom of its twigs for arrows and quietly stealing plates and ladles from the kitchen for shields, maces and spears, we arranged our equipment. As the Lord Hanuman, holding my air-ballooned cheeks, I promptly approached my mother to borrow a match box, required to enact the scene of Sundarakanda where the Lord Hanuman sets ablaze the Lanka. Seldom I had seen such serenity in her eyes as she affectionately said "Hanuman, I shall reward you for your bravery", as she quietly chuckled past me towards the kitchen. As I saw her approaching me, smiling and with her left hand folded to her back, I was preparing to escape for that posture of hers, quite familiar to me, meant something bad. But, I couldn't move as I felt someone or something was firmly holding my shoulder and gently tapping on the rear of my head. I began trembling as my mother was speeding up towards me. I felt the grip on my shoulder tighten and tapping become harder as I tried to shake it off me. As my mother was a hand's distance away from me, I felt a sudden splash water on my face. Forthwith, I felt the pricking rigid surface of the desk under my cheek, as I gently opened my eyes. I realized that Ms. Priya dressed in a bright red saree, holding a bottle of water stood next to me as the other pupils giggled at me.
_____________________________________________________________________
May 20th it was, when my 3rd grade exams ended and I was delighted at the thought of spending the summer along side my cousins in the hometown of my ancestors, a remote village in AP. The next morning, my mother escorted me to our 2500 sq.ft ancestral mud house erected nearly a century ago. It was not gated as were many in rural India, then. A small patio resembling a lane, separated the main house from the shed for the livestock. A couple of bullock-carts were stationed in the lane, next to our car, a spectacle alien to most urban folk, today. My mother chased me as I dropped my bags in an instant and ran towards those carts to cling onto one of their wooden wheels and mount the cart, only to trip over the first rock ahead of me and end up with a bruised hand. Those were the first of several bruises I had over the summer, some of which were my mother's compliments in the honor of my mischief.
A typical day would begin as freshly melted dew drops sprinkled over us by an arbor of tress, that gently swayed in chilly and calm morning breeze, would caress us off a pleasant slumber on the roof top. Though my eye lids drooped, I could witness the canopy of blue shades assume the dark sky amidst the warbling of birds as if to greet the first rays of the morning. Settling ourselves atop one of the carts, me and my cousins contested each other by blowing hot air into the mist while sipping the simmering hot coffee. We then uneasily awaited our turn to bathe by swinging stones into the overhead water tank which supplied hot water. Men in traditional regalia, a silk dhoti and uttaryam, and bearing Tiruman and Srichoornam (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Srivaishnava_Urdhva_Pundra) on their foreheads were preparing themselves for Pratahsamdhya (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sandhyavandanam). Women were occupied among themselves while adorning each other in six or nine yards madsar saree and ornaments. My stomach was beginning to growl as I hoped that one of them would hear it and address my concern already for given my daily routine, I was just a bath, an hour of parayanam and another hour of dhyanam away from my breakfast. As I heard "Pongal for breakfast", I was slavering as the glimpses of hot gelatinous pongal, with black pepper, curry leaves, finely chopped pieces of ginger and chillies sauted in frizzling ghee, and generously garnished with coriander leaves, served with mango thokku, flashed into my mind. This time, I heard a few more growls but that was not from just me.
________________________________________________________________
During dhyana, I, seated a fore the holy idol of the Lord Laxmi Sametha Sri Narasimha, was focused at nothing but the feet of the divine lord, where rested the whole world including the copper vessel containing pongal, capped by a banana leaf. At end of this timeless wait, I heard a voice that said, "carry the container to the kitchen", which I instantly recognized. It was of my uncle, that hitherto daunted me sounded sweeter than honey for the pongal was ready to be served in plates to everyone, from the kitchen. However, my glittering expression soon turned gloomy as, I, being the most obedient of all my cousins, was asked by the ladies in the kitchen to assist them. I was concerned for two reasons. One, those who served had to wait until others were done and two, the pongal could be in shortage for the former. Nevertheless, I conceded to their request, rather dejectedly for my uncle was around. I heard the ladies murmur, "he is a sincere and an innocent kid". I wondered what sincerity and innocence did they find in the annoyed and somber expression on my face.
_________________________________________________________________
Post lunch, all the kids would gather in the capacious backyard of the house and pounce onto the stacks of hay heaped for fodder to impersonate the characters from Ramayana, which was our most beloved past-time. Arching out bows from the sticks of Neem that were meant for for brushing teeth, emptying broom of its twigs for arrows and quietly stealing plates and ladles from the kitchen for shields, maces and spears, we arranged our equipment. As the Lord Hanuman, holding my air-ballooned cheeks, I promptly approached my mother to borrow a match box, required to enact the scene of Sundarakanda where the Lord Hanuman sets ablaze the Lanka. Seldom I had seen such serenity in her eyes as she affectionately said "Hanuman, I shall reward you for your bravery", as she quietly chuckled past me towards the kitchen. As I saw her approaching me, smiling and with her left hand folded to her back, I was preparing to escape for that posture of hers, quite familiar to me, meant something bad. But, I couldn't move as I felt someone or something was firmly holding my shoulder and gently tapping on the rear of my head. I began trembling as my mother was speeding up towards me. I felt the grip on my shoulder tighten and tapping become harder as I tried to shake it off me. As my mother was a hand's distance away from me, I felt a sudden splash water on my face. Forthwith, I felt the pricking rigid surface of the desk under my cheek, as I gently opened my eyes. I realized that Ms. Priya dressed in a bright red saree, holding a bottle of water stood next to me as the other pupils giggled at me.
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