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When the Grass is Green on Both Sides (The Summer I Never Had)

                                                                                                                                                                  Ananya Ravikumar
As the last summer vacation of my school days comes to an end, I begin to think of what summer means to me. It means no school, obviously; It also means mangoes - the big juicy Alphonsos cut into long slices; Swimming - the brilliant blue of the pool under the hot sun; the screaming and laughter of children as they splash around in the cool water; Lots of vanilla ice cream;Watching movies at home with popcorn or pizza;  Books and the TV, especially Harry Potter and I Love Lucy; Sleepovers, new textbooks, surprisingly long days,  and the best of them all, the rhythmic humming of the ceiling fan on a hot afternoon.

As you can see, I had a very nice childhood, and I had nice vacations. But there was always a point every summer when I was a tad jealous of all the other kids. One summer memory that I don't have is the one of visiting my hometown. I live in it. I used to see my cousins and grandparents at least once a month, if not every other week. Hold your horses, I'm not complaining.  I love being close to everyone. But every summer, my friends would be so excited at the prospect of going to their
hometown and meeting grandparents or cousins or uncles and aunts... It sounds irrational, but I felt left out.
Every year, a part of me would imagine the excitement of the journey. The sound of the train as my parents told me stories about our hometown; stories that I already knew, but listened to with pleasure anyway. Maybe a  grinning cousin would meet us at the station. Maybe we'd take an auto or a bus. I imagined the welcoming smiles of relatives; people I loved, people I hadn't seen in a year. I imagined the special meal made to welcome us, filled with local delicacies that never tasted the same anywhere else. I imagined the lack of malls and high rise towers; the lack of bumper to bumper traffic and pollution. I imagined that there would be no TV or computer, or at least, that I wouldn't be interested in them. It would be a place where they were not a part of the daily routine. I imagined the games  we would play and the stories we would tell in the old, old house. I imagined the greenery, the silence and the peace. I wondered what it would feel like to call such a place home.

 I've only read about life in villages and small towns. I don't know anyone who lives in them. The only farms I've seen are  the ones that sped past  the window of our car. Even my grandparents grew up in the city! So every summer, I felt a little disconnected from my idea of India. The India that I read about in my textbooks and  the India I saw on Independence Day and Republic Day lived in villages - places that I would forever be an outsider in, but places that my friends, even if it was just once a year, could call home.

Of course, India is changing. My family has it's own stories and traditions. And I love Bangalore. But you know what they say about the grass on the other side of the fence, and this spoiled city kid wanted a peek even when she knew that no grass could be greener than hers.
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  1. C.P. Ravikumar13 July 2015 at 06:48

    You were too young when we took our vacations to Bangalore from Delhi and Goa! But I have wonderful memories of telling you stories on the train journey from Delhi to Bangalore.

    ReplyDelete
  2. the paintbrush18 July 2015 at 16:32

    Maybe that's why the idea of listening to stories sounds so nice. :)

    ReplyDelete

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