Summer utopia

The extended summer holidays, when all schools close down for a two to three month break, are lengthy and arduous. The parents are in a fix as they look for ways and means to keep their precious progenies occupied in some useful activity. They go into great lengths to explore the various possibilities and enrol them in one camp after another in order to make the maximum use of their time. It is a very challenging process and occurs with painful regularity every year, until the kids go off to college, but by then, a fresh set of complications crop up. But here I digress. 

However, let me tell you that it was not always like this. During our schooldays my summer and winter vacations appeared without any warning. Other than being in the corresponding seasons, that is. I mean, we did have an annual calendar with the holidays marked in it, but it was printed inside our school diaries where we were meant to jot down our homework assignments. The class teacher also sent complaint notes to our parents in the same diary with messages like, “the child needs to work on her arithmetic”. 

The terse, one lined missives never reached the recipients, because once I got home, nobody opened those diaries. I verbally conveyed my tutor’s grievances to my mum or dad and they would tell me to make more of an effort. That was it. There were no threats of punishment or any such thing. All they did was carelessly ruffle the hair on my head, and follow it up with gentle laughter. 

Personally, I liked it when my vacations sprang up suddenly. My mother would not have the time to book our train tickets and drag us to her father’s house for an endless summer of rules and regulations. My maternal grandfather was a tyrant and whenever he interacted with us, it seemed like he was shouting out orders to an army contingent, not children. My dad, on the other hand, never raised his voice. I jumped up every time my granddad said something because his commanding tone scared me and so I was happiest the years we were not forced to visit him.

Those long summer days when we stayed at home were glorious, especially the afternoons when we escaped the siesta room to loiter under the large shady Banyan tree that stood right in the middle of the courtyard. Our plump nanny, who was supposed to watch over us, snored noisily, while my brothers and I tiptoed on bare feet. 

Once out in the open we ran around aimlessly till we were out of breath and then went exploring for rare stuff. Our treasures ranged from bird’s eggs, caterpillars, snails, butterflies, peacock feathers and unique shaped stones to different kinds of wild berries. The pockets of my dresses bulged with these possessions that I traded with my friends later, in exchange for comic books.

We scared each other with spooky stories, the white bed sheets stolen from the clothesline, trailing behind our backs, when we enacted the scenes.

“I had a pet turtle called Daisy,” I recounted to our daughter.

“Oh yes?” she exclaimed without listening. 

“I lost her suddenly,” I continued. 

“Oh no,” she sympathised. 

 “I think somebody ate her up,” I said. 

“Oh no!” she repeated, sitting up in attention. 

“It broke my heart,” I muttered. 

“So what did you do?” she asked. 

“I stopped eating turtle soup,” I confessed.