May in India is more than a month — it’s a memory. A golden haze of sunshine and sweat, of freedom and far-off fields, of trains chugging towards native places and hearts fluttering with holiday joy. Yes, the sun rules the skies. It scorches, it stings, it melts the noon hours into stillness. But …
May in India is more than a month — it’s a memory. A golden haze of sunshine and sweat, of freedom and far-off fields, of trains chugging towards native places and hearts fluttering with holiday joy.
Yes, the sun rules the skies. It scorches, it stings, it melts the noon hours into stillness. But no one minds — not really. Because May brings liberty. No homework. No timetables. Just the open sky, and the echo of laughter ringing through dusty courtyards.
It’s the season of mango-stained hands and secret card games with cousins. Of bicycles racing through sleepy lanes and the clang of buckets drawn from wells. It’s when buses overflow with bags and stories, and every train to a village feels like a homecoming.
The country groans about the heat, yet clings to the sweetness it brings. Then one afternoon, a cloud rolls in. Thunder cracks open the sky. Rain spills like a promise. And just like that, May softens.
We sigh in relief. Until the puddles grow. Until the rains refuse to leave. Then, we long for the May sun again.
That’s the magic of May — a month of too much, and somehow, never enough.
Lajwanti D’Souza
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