Gulmohar days in India
[ Devika Mathur ]

Summers in India are full of stories—stories of mango trees and visits to Nani’s house. Stories about cousins scaring each other with ghost tales. Reveries of sweet mango pickles and doors that welcome all the relatives. My grandma’s house in Uttar Pradesh is one of a kind, with peculiar bird songs in the mornings—the tunes of rickshaw pullers shouting in the scorching heat about some change to their customers.

The verandah held all the cooling plants one could imagine during summer—from Tulsi to Snake plants. As my Daadi always said, it used to be far cooler in her time, thanks to terracotta paints and special bricks. Amidst the burning heat, India thrives, as my grandfather always reminded me.

Chasing ice cream sellers barefoot, visiting raw fruit markets in rustic lanes, witnessing the fine lines etched on houses and the faces of old ladies—all of it is a translucent, sacred dream. The voices in those homely streets remind me of my mother and siblings. Over there, summer is not just a season, but a folklore, a tale, a galaxy of people's glinting eyes and hearts full of stories and dreams.

Each sunrise brings new hope—a hope to chase the wind and Daadi’s fallen laddoo. I have spent endless days resting on that chaarpai, gazing at the stars, counting them, and listening to scripture tales from my father. He loves intricate details—defining a character or adventure with such precision that he wouldn’t miss a single thread. And then, amidst those hot, gusty winds, I would suddenly feel enlightened, shining like a star with pride.

Fans creak, May curls around ankles as we sip buttermilk from stainless glasses—the sentiment of heat settles inside my heart, overpowering all my trivial worries. It rests like an old lover’s song, like my aunt’s shimmering fried onion pakoras—a prayer in itself. This heat is a test—a test of skin, passion, cotton sarees, of gulmohars setting fire to the streets.

In India, in my hometown, heat is a chapter of ghosts, pain, memories—uncomfortable, beautiful, and ours. 

Gulmohar- a tree with pink,orange flowers

Tulsi-Indian herbal shrub 

nani, daadi-grandmother

pakoras-fried fritters

Devika Mathur is an Indian poet, writer, educator, and editor. Her work has appeared in The Alipore Post, Madras Courier, Modern Literature, Two Drops of Ink, Dying Dahlia Review, Pif Magazine, Spillwords, Duane's Poetree, Piker Press, Mojave Heart Review, Whisper and the Roar, and more. She is the founder of Olive Skins and the author of Crimson Skins. Her poetry is also featured in Sunday Mornings River, Parcham, and Poets Espresso Review.

Instagram: @my.valiant.soul

cover photo by arcadesign