A change of seasons

I remember the first 4-5 showers of the average monsoon season in Baroda. While the season’s 1st rains came and washed down all the dust and pollution out of the air and diluted the tag of acid rain, we were actually waiting for the 2nd rain. The 2nd shower would give us a chance to bathe in it, to get rid of the seasonal ‘prickly heat’ boils, to smell the earth, and permit us to wait for the next couple of sessions of rainfall. The subsequent rainfalls would mean a lot of fresh groundnuts and a hot plate of bhajjiyas/pakodas (definition, (courtesy Google): a small, spicy fritter containing pieces of vegetables or meat, made usually with a batter of chickpea flour and deep-fried) cooked by my granny. Everyone used to be so happy, happy knowing that the 4th, 5th and 6th showers were not just some passing thunder showers, but were instrumental in cementing the monsoon in place. All of Baroda could be seen on the terrace, bathing. The cyclists used to wear the blue polythene bags on their heads to keep themselves dry. Kids used to jump around and cycle wildly, aiming to hit the middle of the puddles, while another bunch of kids would be sailing boats and yet another would be playing football or cricket. My elder bro and I used to wash the car while it rains, thinking we would be reducing water usage by doing so.

I used to be playing and ini (grand-mom) used to be cooking bhajjiyas, since deriving joy by cooking and feeding others came naturally to her and was one of the things that she enjoyed doing. Then, we would sit outside together and eat them with ketchup, while still piping hot. More than any of the other things, this is what I associated monsoons with, along with having her around.

5 monsoons later (since she’s moved on), the seasons have changed significantly.

What is it about grand moms and granddads that makes them so endearing? Is it their tens of wrinkles which underline and frame their emotions when they smile? Or is it their laugh lines which etch them in my permanent memory?