Summer afternoons of the yore

Summer afternoons then were full of fun,
To the terrace we would run,
Brothers, sisters and cousins,
There, beside the water tank,
Where granny had left her pots and pans,
We would savour the taste
Of her famous pickles,
With a spoon we would dig out
Pickles made of mango, jaggery and vinegar,

Downstairs, mother and aunts
Had their post lunch treat,
Of listening to plays on the radio,
And munching betel leaves,

Granny would then be taking her nap,
And at the neighbourhood drinking water tap,
There would be rows of pitchers and pails,

From the terrace we would see
Our small muffassil town,
Having a siesta under the summer breeze,

The arterial road that went to the bazar,
Had sometimes the company of vagrants,
With turbans on their heads as gears,
They looked like troupe of ballad singers,

And at the grove near the pond
Which looked like shady haunt,
Children would sometimes gather,
Like flock of pigeons, they would hop,
Till the afternoon would near
The evening's door make a stop.