The Summers We Once Knew

Summers once felt like a festival,
a season of open skies and unending joy.
The sun’s first rays woke us,
and we spilled into the world barefoot,
chasing shadows and climbing trees
that bent low with promises of ripe fruit.

Mangoes hung like treasures,
their tangy sweetness paired with salt and chili.
Coconuts quenched our thirst,
their cool nectar a relief in the heat.
Palmyra fruits, cracked open with a practiced hand,
offered sweet and soft white kernels;
a feast as simple as it was perfect.

Each leaf held a purpose,
a fan for the midday heat,
or a crown for the king of our games.
The lakes shimmered under the sun,
their banks alive with lotus blooms,
and the duck’s quacks
felt like music to our endless chatter.
We built sandcastles by the shore,
our laughter as loud as the breeze.

Evenings brought a cool embrace.
The air smelled of boiled rice and ghee,
and mother’s hands mixed the meal with Nallakaram;
a taste that lingers in my memory.
We huddled around grandmother,
her ghost stories turning the night alive.
Every shadow became a spirit,
and every large, bushy tree,
with its sprawling branches,
seemed to hold a ghost waiting to pounce.

At night, the stars spread across the sky,
scattered like jewels,
their patterns whispering ancient tales.
We drew invisible pictures,
connecting dots to make animals and dreams.
Grandfather’s voice joined in,
narrating stories older than the constellations.
We slept under that endless sky,
safe in the arms of the earth.

Now, summer has turned into a tyrant.
The wind, once carrying the scent of jasmine,
now blows with dust and fumes.
The streets sizzle like frying pans,
and the sun presses its heat
against concrete walls that never cool.
Skin burns, air stifles,
and the nights offer no relief,
with stars swallowed by smog.

We lock ourselves in concrete boxes,
yearning for the open skies,
but fearing the outside;
mosquitoes, robbers, and polluted air.
Even the villages, once untouched,
are clouded with the same grey haze.
The lakes are dry, the ducks silent,
and the trees bear fruits
that no one plucks anymore.

Schools give holidays,
but joy no longer comes with them.
Assignments pile high,
while the children stare at screens,
missing the sunlit games we once cherished.

The earth feels weary,
its summers, harsh and unforgiving.
What once felt like freedom
now feels like a cage.

Will we ever return to those kinder days?
Or are summers destined
to be just memories;
the taste of mangoes shared with friends,
the sound of grandmother’s voice
beneath a sky alive with stars?

Past summer days,
a time when the world was simpler,
when the air was lighter,
and joy was as free as the wind.