“Garmi ki chuttiyan kab shuru ho rahi hain?”

That one line threw me back.

To a time before passwords. Before air conditioners. Before adulthood turned summers into emails.

It began with packing. One bag full of clothes and lots of love.
“Mummy, slippers le loon kya?”
“Arre Nani ke ghar jaa rahe ho, wahan sab milega.”

My Nani's house stood quietly in Patel Nagar. White walls. Green grill gate. And just outside, a jamun ka ped that dropped purple stains on the tin roof of the school across the road. We’d collect the fallen ones, wash them in the steel thali, sprinkle salt, and fight over who got more.

Afternoons were cooler air and Nani’s pyaar. The old cooler made more noise than wind, but it was enough. Nani would ask me my favourite food, tell us stories of Chandni Chowk and then give us 10rs for samosa and pepsi.

Evenings were for adventure.
“Race lagayein park tak?”
And fast we went, running with bare feet, slipping once, laughing more. That park was our Olympic medal. Returning back, we played cricket in the veranda using bricks as stumps.
“Ball Nani ke paudhe mein chali gayi!”
“Main nahi laaunga is baar!”
“Main pehle out hua tha!”

Then there was mamu. Always with a cheeky smile and a plate of chole.
“Mujhe yaad hai ki tujhe chole pasand hain.”
That chole still water my mouth with a spicy memory. Cooked in silence. Served with affection. He never said much, but always noticed what we liked.

Every summer also meant one trip to Hapur. Massi’s house. Where mornings began with the loud echo of the buffalo.
We used to say,
“Garmi lag rahi hai!”
“Seedha khet chalte hain, Tubewell mein nahayenge.”
The cold splash on sunburnt skin felt heaven in the scorched hell.

Fields stretched like dreams. We sang gaane in the sugarcane fields. Played cricket on dry patches of soil. Ate mangoes straight from trees.
“Massi, ek aur aam do na.”
“Pehle khatam toh karo.”
And then came that legendary reply:
“Yeh toh ghutli hai.”

Those days had rhythm. Bhajans in the morning. Tales of Dilli in the afternoon. Antakshari after dinner. And sleep on the floor, under the fan, with cousins lined like railway berths.

Years moved faster than I thought. That jamun tree still stands. But the people around it don’t. I lost my Nani, my Massi, and my Mamu. Their absence echoes more in June than in December. Because summer doesn’t return with the same warmth anymore.

But memories? They return quietly. They smell like mangoes. Taste like chole. Feel like cooler ki hawa.

And sometimes, they make me cry.