Yet another summer has arrived. As I open my window the morning breeze slowly wafts into my room through the seemingly painted lake, caressing the bloom-speckled canopies of trees. It is now the mating season of cuckoos. Mornings are filled with their melodious mating calls. There are a lot of feathered friends frolicking among the foliage. The parakeets and mynas are among the successfully camouflaged ones while the kingfishers and the golden oriole stand out in their bright coloured plumes. Seeing them flitting around, my mind also sprouts wings.
Journeys do not always necessarily have to be physical. Sometimes wanderings of heart and mind are enough. The body stays in the present time and the soul can go flying to the past, or wherever and whenever. Even when you have been to a place, when you see the souvenirs of that journey, or feel them with your hands, the mind revisits that place. Certainly more so if you have left a piece of your soul there. It could be a geographical area, or a place in time.
Before the blue lake that divides the cityscape from the woods, my mind wanders to my home. There, the sweltering hot air is permeated with the tangy fragrance of mangoes now. Sitting at the rooftop, one can see a conglomeration of different birds – the small green barbets, rufous treepies, greater coucals, gregarious jungle babblers, and magpie robins. The mango tree stands gracefully, welcoming them all. Tucked under the green boughs are the hanging pouch nests of sunbirds. The red weaver ants march along the mango tree, spellbound by the aroma exuded by the amber resins of mangoes. They weave the mango leaves to build their nesting colonies. For me, the only respite in the heat is feasting on mangoes in various forms. As slices, juices, milk shakes spiced up with a pinch of cardamom, pickles, and the ripe mangoes cooked in curd to be served with rice.
Travelling back in time, I cannot recall if the summers were this hot. In fact, I looked forward to my summer holidays. Not with the dread of the heat that we associate with it now. That is when my cousins came to spend their vacations at my father’s place.
The heat never bothers us. We play from dawn to dusk. The dilapidated snake grove partly engulfed by the wilderness is our playground. We are having such fun picking the fallen flowers of the bullet wood tree and gathering wild berries from the thickets. We believe there is a hidden treasure under the grove guarded by the ever-watchful snakes. We believe that we will be able to find it and constantly speculate on the possible corners where it would be hidden. When it seemed an impossible and tiring task, we sneak into our ancestral home and come out with hand full of salted mango slices left in the open to be sun-dried without anybody noticing.
Time stands still and the same. But the location is different. This is my mother’s house. There is my grandma, grandpa, and my aunt who is in her twenties. Here there are no children except me. My cousins were in another state and our vacations did not coincide much. So I am left alone to wander around the whole place. There are so many ponds with fish and turtles of varying sizes. Stretches of green fields, cashew orchards and enchanting wilderness. Having an afternoon siesta, lying on bamboo mats, under the cashew trees, being lulled into sleep by the soothing west wind is a summer routine. My favourite pastime is to climb up my favourite cashew tree which is so kind enough to spread its lower boughs to my height. Ensconcing myself at one of the higher branches, sometimes I read books I carry with me. Other times, I simply sit there perched at a height, which presents me with a sweeping view of the green lands dotted with coconut trees and grazing cattle, gazing at the horizon in awe.
Jolting myself back to the present I am still looking out from my window with the lake still spread before my eyes in all its beauty. The sun rays have become mightier in their radiance, changing the shades of the sky and the lake. Certain memories are treasured and cherished for they can only be revisited in time, and not in physical space. For they are lost. The bullet wood tree and the wilderness of the grove do not exist any more. Nor does the cashew orchard or the old house. They are now non-existent, except in my memories. And memories themselves become multipurpose tools shaping themselves into souvenirs and portals that allow you to travel in time and imagine alternative realities across space and time.