Summers of Pink Bougainvillea
As time passes, memories fade but impressions last. Notes from a childhood.
The rickshaw rolls down the main road in Bhiwani, the air tinged with the smells of summer heat, burnt cow dung, and open drains. It’s not all unpleasant. The shade of the gulmohar trees lining the road holds the promise of a known yet undiscovered summer break with the family.
I grasp the sides of the rickshaw as it plunges off the tar road and onto a kaccha gully. A bump, a jolt and we are now swaying in our seats. The rickshawalla remains unfazed by the change in topography and keeps pedaling as we enter the muddy zigzag of lanes that line the residential area where my grandparents live.
We stop in front of a wrought iron gate, painted white with a profusion of pink bougainvillea flowers shading it. A short, plump woman with gray hair, wearing a printed salwar kameez with a dupatta thrown carelessly over her shoulders walks over smiling. Her grandkids are home.
Year after year, all through my childhood, summer vacations meant a trip up north to visit both sets of grandparents. Our destination was Bhiwani, a small city in northern India. In geographical spread and population density, one could argue it was a city, but in spirit and in attitude it retained the languidness of a small town.
