Whispers of a Golden Summer

Unlike the school holidays of today, my childhood summers were a magical escape, untouched by the burden of holiday homework or screen time. They were long and unhurried, where imagination ruled and simple joys created lifelong memories. It was a season of freedom, of invention, of being utterly, blissfully present.

The two-month summer break meant pure joy: indulging in hobbies, creating new games with cousins, and soaking in the sheer delight of being surrounded by an extended family. Mangoes, the undisputed heroes of the season, were soaked in buckets of cold water to be sucked greedily, dripping the juice over us. We would lounge in pools, read under slow-turning hand-drawn ceiling fans, and run around until our feet burned from the hot terrace, but we didn’t care. Summer was ours!

Every year, we embarked on our annual journey to visit both sets of grandparents—maternal and paternal. Travelling in May and June, often from wherever my father, an Army officer, was posted, that meant long and exciting train journeys. The adventure began the moment we boarded our first-class coupe. Back then, in the early 1960s, there was no air conditioning. A large block of ice (a silli) sat in an iron tray between the berths, its cool vapour filling the coupe and preserving our food. The ice would be replaced at every major station—how eagerly we awaited those halts!

There was something magical about eating on the train. I remember being ravenous the moment we left the platform. Nothing could match the taste of aloo puri on a moving train, especially with a tangy smear of mango pickle. It was as if the journey itself seasoned the food differently.

The first stop was usually my maternal grandparents’ home in Moradabad—a bustling house that accommodated six uncles and their families under one roof. We were pampered and spoiled by aunts and older cousins, shielded from scoldings and swept up in mischief. That generation had an endless reservoir of patience and tolerance. It was a world far from the discipline of our Army home, and we relished every moment.

Our days were filled with games and laughter, but not just idle fun. My older cousins looked forward to my mother’s visits—she brought new craft skills from wherever we had last lived. That’s how I first learned tie and dye, batik, and how to prime my own canvas for painting. Of course, I had more paint on me than the canvas, but it didn’t matter—it was all part of the joy.

Evenings often meant a trip to the town’s cinema to catch the latest movie—a huge treat, since our usual entertainment in Army camps was watching old films in open-air theatres, sitting on wooden benches under the stars. Both experiences had their charm, but the cool, dark cinema hall felt like stepping into another world.

Books were my constant companions. I would read for hours, completely engrossed in the stories. Along the way, I soaked up the conversations of elders—family anecdotes, snippets of history, values passed down in whispers. These seemingly ordinary exchanges were priceless.

The second leg of our holiday brought a change in setting but not in magic. We travelled to my paternal grandparents’ village home, a structure that looked more like a small fort and was called ‘Haveli’. Made of thick red sandstone, the house had a grand entrance gate tall enough for an elephant with a howdah. The two-panelled wooden gate required at least two men to open one side.

There was no electricity. We drew water from the well in the courtyard, used oil lamps after sunset, and cooked on wood-fired chulas. The house, with its thick walls, stayed wonderfully cool. We slept on charpoys woven with hemp rope, enjoying the stillness of village nights.

One of my favourite memories is stealthily following my grandfather after his morning prayers. He would walk across the road to the temple to offer water to the Shivlinga. We would wait in the shadows and then approach him on his return, asking for barf ka gola—crushed ice sticks drizzled with colourful syrups. He never said no. My mother, though, was always concerned we’d catch stomach infections in the village and would try to stop us. Dodging her and getting our treat became a daily game.

Reaching our ancestral village involved multi-modal travel. We would first take the train to Aligarh, then board a bus to a dusty road crossing where a bullock cart awaited. It was lined with mattresses and cushions to make the bumpy ride more bearable. Our final destination, being our home was the haveli, had five courtyards and was full of secret corners and stories. Underground rooms were kept locked to prevent accidents. There was even a tunnel used by women of the house in earlier times, when they observed purdah.

Family reunions brought my father’s siblings and their families together under one roof. One highlight was making ice cream at home—thickened milk churned in a tin placed in ice and salt in a special ice cream-making bucket. Each of us took turns to rotate the handle. The result? The most delicious ice cream I’ve ever tasted.

Some memories, like the cow-and-milk episode, still bring a smile. I once refused to drink milk, and my grandmother lovingly explained that the milk was from our cow. Horrified, I declared it was the cow’s vomit and promptly threw up—much to the family’s amusement. I had only seen milk come from bottles, not cows. They later took me to watch her milk the cow, slowly erasing my revulsion with gentle honesty.

The towns have changed. The haveli is in ruins. Family members are now scattered across cities and continents. Yet, these summers live on—as whispers of a world that no longer exists but is stitched tightly into my memory. A time of storytelling, affection, warmth, and freedom that shaped who I am today.