Monsoon of Memories: The Summer Holiday Destination
I remember the summers of the times gone by when a vacation destination meant only one place—the grandparents’ home—and nobody complained.
Weeks before schools shut down for a break, we’d receive letters from our grandparents expressing their excitement about our summer holidays visit, and we too would write back sharing with them everything we’d like to do when we got there. The words scribbled on the blue-colored inland letters were enough to transport us to their homes and the pampering that awaited us. Soon after, mum and dad would book the train tickets
and we’d begin to pace restlessly, counting the days left as we filled up our suitcases with cards that we’d made for them during the year, the board games that we’d carry to be able to play with them, and more.
We’d board the train, and with no way to communicate about the delay in departure or arrival, we’d all play a guessing game for the time we’d reach Naana-Naani’s (maternal grandparents) home. Irrespective of what time we made it, they’d be standing at the gates eager to engulf us in the warmest of hugs. Sometimes, Naani would even break down in tears as she planted kisses on our foreheads.
The next two months would fly away sooner than we’d want. Their homes, equipped with all that we required and even things that we were not ‘allowed’ at our homes, only added to the ideal quotient of the vacation time. Cupboards loaded with candies both homemade and store-bought, Naani willing to experiment baking a pizza in her oven, Naana always excited to walk with us to the nearby market to buy us a bottle of flavored milk, and to have them both listen to us as we spoke incessantly about our lives were the highlights of the stay.
As years went by, we began to drive down from our home to that of our grandparents, with a must-stopover for a quick lunch at a dhaba (eatery on the highway). We’d now call them from dad’s mobile telling them we were almost there, giving just enough time to Naani to fry hot puris (pieces of bread) for us. And irrespective of what and how much we’d eaten at the stopover, we’d overindulge in the meals she’d prepared for us. Later, as times changed, we attended universities across the country and began to board flights to visit them. Of course, we forwent inflight meals, only to be voluntarily overfed by them on reaching home.
As I look back, I don’t recall a calendar filled up with extraordinary summer craft camps, swimming lessons or sports sessions. But I do recall mornings of learning how to make paper boats, afternoons of helping Naani lay the table, evenings of drenching one another with the water hose in the lawns, and nights of storytelling in bed as we all cuddled up on the same bed. I don’t recall slipping into fancy resort wear for this holiday; rather I relish the memories of scouring through their metal trunks and slipping into clothes that once belonged to Naani or mum.
Growing up led to wish lists of visiting countries in Europe and beyond, of spending time in world-renowned botanical parks and unique historical museums. Yet, they failed in comparison to the picnics we had in grandparents’ backyards sitting atop rugs or the excitement that lay in flipping through family albums wherein lay the nuggets of history of our families! The summer vacation of yesteryears leaves me moist-eyed and wanting for a chance to hit rewind. For me, vacation spelled only one destination.
Purva Grover is an author, journalist, poet, playwright and stage director. A postgraduate in mass communication and literature, she is the founder-editor of The Indian Trumpet, a digital magazine for Indian expats in the UAE. She can be reached at grover.purva@gmail.com. To comment on this article, please write to letters@khabar.com.
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