Indian summer, like any other season, does not arrive in a single day. It inches in bit by bit, each day a little less forgiving than the last. The fan is the first to give it away. One morning it stops working like a comfort appliance and starts behaving like something slogging through a job it is no longer capable of doing. The air conditioner is switched on. Every year, it feels like this has never happened quite so soon before.
By May, everybody becomes slightly different versions of themselves.
People who spent winter drinking endless cups of hot coffee suddenly start paying attention to hydration, carrying water bottles the size of small fire extinguishers. Sugarcane and fruit juice stalls begin attracting customers who normally walk past them without a second glance.
Summer also changes our relationship with time.
Morning walkers now appear on roads at hours previously associated only with newspaper vendors, sanitation workers and people catching early morning flights. By 5:30 a.m., parks are already full of determined walkers moving briskly before the sun starts taking it seriously. By 8 a.m., the parks stand empty.
Summer also changes the geography of daily life. The shaded side of the road suddenly becomes more valuable than the sunny one. Parking under a tree begins to feel like an achievement. People entering parked cars in the afternoon do so carefully, negotiating with the steering wheel, testing the seat, and never quite sitting down fully on the first attempt.
Even social behaviour changes.
In pleasant weather, when someone says, “Let’s catch up sometime,” dates get fixed, plans get made. In peak summer, friendship itself becomes temperature-sensitive. Invitations are evaluated based on distance, weather forecast and the likelihood of a power cut.
A lunch invitation in summer is no longer a social event. It is a test of emotional commitment.
Indian summers revive folk memory. Onions in pockets reappear as serious advice. Buttermilk every two hours becomes a prescription. On WhatsApp groups, all manner of remedies arrive daily, with no traceable origin or authority. Nobody knows whether any of this works. Some follow the advice without question. Others make quiet fun of it. Summer continues regardless.
Food, too, knows its place in summer. The winter repertoire of rich curries, parathas and halwa desserts retreats without argument. What arrives in its place is lighter, cooler and distinctly seasonal. Every region has its own version. Every household has its preferences. The colder the better. The simpler the better.
Even ambition slows down.
By afternoon, entire cities seem to enter a silent understanding that very little unnecessary movement should be attempted outdoors. Shops grow quieter. Roads look briefly abandoned. Curtains remain drawn.
Our tolerance for effort changes. Plans that would seem perfectly reasonable in December begin sounding unnecessarily ambitious in May. The phrase “Let’s do it after sunset” quietly becomes the only reasonable plan.
This may be the only season where survival itself feels like an achievement.
Not everyone has the option of drawing the curtains. For the delivery rider, the street vendor, the security guard at the gate, the heat is not an inconvenience to be managed indoors. It is simply the condition of the working day.
Perhaps that is why Indian summers produce both irritation and adjustment at the same time. We complain constantly, but we also adapt with surprising speed. Nobody decides to adapt. It simply happens. Life just adjusts its timings and carries on.
By June, we are all slightly exhausted, mildly dehydrated and strangely united. Not by any great cause. Just by the shared, unspoken goal of lasting until the clouds arrive.
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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