PERSONALITY
TREND
FASHION
SPECIAL
ARCHIVES

V Gangadhar

An Indian Summer

The very first sentence in Peyton Place, Grace Metalious' bestseller of the 1960s, talked about the arrival of the Indian summer in the small town of Peyton Place. As a teenager hooked to steamy fiction, I wondered how an American town could experience an Indian summer. Perhaps, Ms Metalious was referring to the 'temperature' in her novel which was full of 'hot scenes'.

No Indian can ignore the impact of an Indian summer. Ask any Tamilian and he will explain that his region has three seasons -- hot, hotter, hottest. Having lived the first 18 years of my life in different areas of the south, I should know what he meant. There was no respite from the heat; the period between April and September was particularly unpleasant. December and January were the only two months when we were spared from the intense heat.

My daughters find it hard to believe that I survived this cruel heat, often without the advantages of electricity. Brought up mostly in Bombay where, fortunately, power failures are at a minimum, they could not reconcile with the fact that most of my early years were spent in areas of darkness without electric lights and, more important, fans. "How did you survive, Appa? How come you didn't melt? How did people face the long, hot summer without fans and air-conditioners?"

Well, we survived because we had to. There was no other alternative. In the remote towns and villages of Tirunelveli district where we lived during the late 1940's and early 1950's, electricity was still a novelty. The huge palace-like bungalow in Seranmahadevi, which had dozens of rooms, had to make do with kerosene lamps and a couple of petromax lights. The heat and humidity were no doubt high, but we just shrugged and carried on.

When one is young, one seldom thought about the ordeals of summer. My father had strict views on what his children should do during the day. They should not stir out of the house under any circumstances and wander under the hot sun.

But I did not find the heat oppressive or intolerable and often broke my father's rules. We played cricket under the blazing sun. I even went to Tambaram railway station several times with my friends to pick up empty cigarette packs from the railway platform and tracks.

It was my hobby and I soon had thousands of cartons. The most eye-catching ones were Players Navy Cut, which displayed a rugged, bearded British sailor. The other popular brands were Scissors, Capstan, Passing Show and Wills Navy Cut.

But such outings often landed me in trouble. Father had the uncanny ability of finding out if I had been in the sun. He examined my eyes and, if they were red, concluded that I had disobeyed him. Unfortunately, my eyes were red most of the time, even if I had not stirred out of the house. So much so that, though known as Kannan at home, my sisters teasingly called me chengannan (red-eyed person). The natural colour of my eyes often led to a severe scolding, but the cigarette packs and the cricket matches were too much of an attraction.

During the cricket season, the Tambaram Cosmopolitan Cricket Team played its league matches every Sunday. As a resident of Tambaram, I felt it was my duty to be present at the matches and cheer my favourite team. But obtaining permission for the matches was not easy. On Sundays, father was always at home and kept a close watch me.

The TCCC was a good team which always finished at the top of the league table. The lure of the turf was irresistible and, most Sundays, I managed to sneak away to watch the match. It led to a frosty reception at home every evening. But that did not bother me. Heat or no heat, I had witnessed yet another triumph by my favourite club.

Some time ago, I watched a Times Shield cricket match in Bombay and was constantly bothered by the heat and the humidity. Travelling in Bombay during the summer often exhausts me. Yet, it was so different during the younger days.

We did not miss electricity because it was simply not there. At our Seranmahadevi bungalow, we had peons to light the kerosene lanterns and the two huge petromax lamps which were kept in the hall and the dining room. There was another cute looking kerosene lamp which we called kozimuttai villaku (egg lamp) because its chimney was shaped like an egg.

The summer nights were bad, particularly when there was no breeze. We had plenty of hand fans which we kept on waving close to our bodies. Ultimately, though, weariness won, the eyes closed and we fell asleep. The only reprieve were the peons pouring innumerable buckets of water on the khas tatties, releasing a fragrance which I remember to this day. When I got up in the morning, my body was soaked in perspiration. But a cool bath brought immediate relief.

Heat or not heat, father worked hard at home going through bundles of files. He had a punkah in the office room; a special peon pulled it throughout the day. The punkah offered some relief, both in his office or in the district magistrate's court where he dispensed justice. But father had a rare quality. He never looked ruffled even on the hottest day. His suit was not wrinkled, not one hair was out of place and he never appeared to sweat.

It is hard to believe that, most of the time, I walked barefoot in the heat. The tar roads emitted scorching heat and I hopped around. Footwear was not common in those days. Father suggested that I go around wearing a sola topi, but I never got around to it because I was certain that my friends would laugh at me.

Heat, dust and sweat were so much part of my life that I was dumbfounded when I first visited an air-conditioned restaurant. Father had taken me and my cousin to Woodlands in Madras. We gasped, shivered and gaped. My cousin, who had spent most of his life in a Palakadu village, summed it up, "Idhu dan swarga logam (This must be paradise)." I could not but agree with him.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier