A cute summer memory by Priya Srivastava

 

Some places in life never leave us, no matter how far we travel or how much we grow. For me, that place was none other than my grandparents’ home in a small town in Bihar. People often called it a small town, but for me, it was no less than the biggest and happiest city in the world. It carried my childhood within its streets, its people, and the warmth of my grandparents’ love.

The most beautiful part was that both my grandmother and my maternal grandmother lived in the same town. I was loved equally by both of them, and every summer vacation felt like entering a world made only of affection, freedom, and happiness. We used to wait the entire year for those vacations. The excitement would begin days before the journey itself.

The six-hour train journey with cousins and family was an adventure of its own. Every railway station felt like a story waiting to be heard. Different people entered the train from different destinations, carrying different accents, habits, and emotions. I loved watching them, talking to strangers, hearing about their lives, and learning little things from them. Somehow, train journeys always made the world feel bigger and closer at the same time.

Inside our compartment, life was full of noise and laughter. We cousins played endless rounds of antakshari in our terribly off-tune voices, yet we sang as if we were performing on a grand stage. Everyone carried different kinds of snacks and lunch boxes, and somehow, food tasted far more delicious during train journeys.

Someone would be busy reading Champak or Chacha Chaudhary comics, someone solving Sudoku puzzles, while another cousin sat silently near the window listening to songs and watching the fields pass by.

And then finally came the destination. The moment the train stopped, we became the happiest people on the platform. It felt like our real vacation had finally begun.

My grandfather was the kind of person who fulfilled every little demand before we could even ask twice. Ice cream became an everyday ritual. My grandmother filled the house with the aroma of delicious homemade food and endless stories from her younger days. Even today, I can almost hear her voice while remembering those afternoons.

The house itself stood on nearly two acres of land, and to us, it felt like a kingdom. We climbed guava trees, completed our holiday homework lazily in the verandah, and spent evenings visiting the stadium nearby or meeting local friends around the neighborhood. There was a strange freedom there, and an “apni marzi ke malik” feeling where life moved slowly and beautifully.

But more than anything, that place taught me the meaning of togetherness. In that town, people celebrated your happiness as if it were their own and stood beside you in sadness without being asked. There was warmth in relationships, simplicity in people, and an irreplaceable feeling of belonging.

My entire summer vacation passed wrapped in the love of my grandparents. And then, like every beautiful thing, the hardest day arrived, the day of returning home. Leaving them behind always felt painful. Sitting in the train while waving goodbye with teary eyes was perhaps the first heartbreak of childhood.

Even today, I believe the love grandparents shower upon us is impossible to find anywhere else in the world. Those summers are gone now, but the memories still live within me like the soft fragrance of an old letter, timeless, comforting, and full of love.