Happy Holidays

The baddeee chhutteeee is here. And then, an odd 60 days isn’t baddeee enough for them. That’s not a really big number, they reason. Come to think of it, it isn’t. What would a measly 60 days, 2-ish months amount to in the larger scheme of things?

 60 days, sun-kissed, leisure-filled…with the sand clock tricking dull-ly, or maybe even not. Lying around, listless, drenched in your own sweat earned whilst doing absolutely nothing. The laziness to move a limb, the luxury of it too. Long conversations, in whispers, with your animals. Soft voices, lest you wake up the world outside the jungle. Sluggish you, carrying truckloads of dreams in your heart. Dreams of wild safaris, having chicken yet again for dinner, the new Doreamon water bottle to be acquired from the top shelf, yellow mangoes at the end of the day, swimming in cold water with sdolphons and sharks and of course, with my Papa, cycling to far away destinations with the little one perched behind, holding on tightly with her claws, like life depended on it. Webs of stories being spun all through the day and then, some more in the night time reverie. The changing shapes of the moon, the changing of the cars parked across the compound, colour-ful clothes to be worn, oreo-s for friends to be carried with us, and in the middle of these mundane chores, let us not forget the importance of rendezvous messages. A day filled with these and then, some colours, fruits, toys, tears, chalks, shrieks, buttons, torches, laughter, shampoo bottles, story books, shadows, walks, eyes, touch, runs, falling, bathing, dancing, music, and more conversations that spill over. An un-labeled jar crammed with all of this, the top not willing to thread itself around the opening. The jar that heaves, breathes and dreams. Life filled with stuff. The stuff summer holidays are made up of.  Worth sweating over.