When fans and ACs stop, memories take over

Why the bloody hell is it so hot in the summer?” burst out Kim in exasperation, as if the sun had declared a personal vendetta against her.

“Language, lady! Language!” tut-tutted my wife, who has been fighting a losing battle against the granddaughters’ spirited vocabulary.

“And when would you prefer the heat, exactly?” Ekya asked with the flawless sarcasm of an elder sister. “In winter?”

Of course it was hot! Blisteringly, mercilessly, vindictively hot! The sort of heat that induces a stupor and makes you question the wisdom of your ancestors for settling in the scorching plains of northern India.

The four of us—my wife, the two visiting granddaughters, and I—huddled in the bedroom while the air conditioner sat useless in the grip of yet another power cut. The ceiling fan turned in lazy, reluctant circles, emitting a weary hum on the inverter’s diminished voltage.

This year, we have already endured three instalments of summer, separated by cunning little spells of rain that didn’t cool anything. They merely transformed dry honest heat into a stifling, humid oppression. TV pundits, WhatsApp gurus, and those smart-aleck neighbours who spout meteorological knowledge after one Google search, have all been unanimous about the cause: climate change, El Niño, Donald Trump and Jupiter transiting through Aries.

Not one of these worthies, however, has offered any practical advice on how to survive without air conditioning. Or without fans and lights, when sometimes even the inverter collapses due to heatstroke.

“Do you know,” I said, “my mother used to say God made summers hot so that mangoes and lychees could be sweeter? The fiercer the furnace, the finer the fruit.”

“I don’t care about your stupid mangoes or lychees!” wailed Kim. “I just want the AC back!”

Just then the electric supply failed completely. The fan gave one final dramatic sigh and stopped dead. I fumbled around blindly and managed to light a candle. The flame flickered weakly, seemingly embarrassed for adding to the heat.

Sitting in that sweltering, candle-lit sauna, my wife attempted nostalgia therapy. “In our day, we cooled ourselves with khus and kevda sherbets and thandai. On the hottest nights, we carried our cots into the garden and slept beneath the open sky.”

“Outside?” Kim asked, horrified, as if her grandmother had confessed to some scandalous family tradition. “Weren’t you afraid of robbers? Or wild animals... or dinosaurs?”

“Dinosaurs?” the missus chuckled. “In Delhi? The only wild creatures that we met were fireflies and mosquitoes. Mosquito nets gave us all the protection we needed.”

“What’s a mosquito net?” asked Ekya, puzzled.

“Stupid!” said Kim, with sisterly authority. “It’s obviously something to keep mosquitoes in.”

“No, no!” my wife corrected. “It was to keep them out! We used to drape the fine netting with bamboo poles above the bed. We pretended that we were sleeping inside a little white castle.”

I caught my wife’s eye across the guttering candle and shook my head. There was no way in which she could bridge this particular generation gap.

So, she changed tactics. “When power cuts stretched for hours, we used hurricane lamps and entertained ourselves by throwing shadow puppets on the walls—beautiful butterflies, dogs and leaping bunnies.”

Kim gave Ekya a questioning look. Ekya returned a sly, conspiratorial smile which said: ‘If she says they made bunnies or butterflies, just nod agreement. Old people are like that only. Even Nana doesn’t always make sense.’

“We also had singing competitions,” my wife continued, undeterred. “Some nights were so hot that sleep was impossible. I used to sprinkle water on my bed for some cool relief.”

Kim asked with innocent mischief, “Nani, till what age did you wet your bed?”

“Why, even till my college days,” my wife replied unsuspectingly.

The girls dissolved into helpless laughter, rolling across the bed as though they had discovered the funniest secret in the world.

“You rascals!” shouted my wife, finally catching on, her face turning a deep red.

“Seriously, Nani,” Kim persisted between giggles, “how did you people cope? No AC, no fans, no nothing. How did you even do holiday homework?”

I interjected. “We had no holiday homework. Summer vacation began the moment the last exam ended. No books, no tuitions, no activity camps, no personality development classes. Summer was simply freedom—unlimited mangoes, journeys to distant places, and visits to grandparents.”

The girls listened, caught between scepticism and envy. In their world, summer means battling both the heat and an exhausting calendar of structured enrichment. In ours, it had meant a freedom so complete that even power cuts became adventures.

As another wave of hot air drifted through the room, it occurred to me that maybe the old summers were not necessarily cooler, but they were borne with greater grace because we didn’t expect comfort as a fundamental right. We suffered with style, sang badly under hurricane lamps, and transformed restless nights and heat rashes into shared stories and quiet celebrations.

Kim suddenly brightened, “Maybe we could try making shadow bunnies.”

Ekya grinned, “Only if Nani promises not to wet the bed again!”

My wife threw a pillow at them. The fan stayed silent. The heat remained triumphant. Yet, in that sweltering darkness, we all laughed loudly, drowning out the persistent buzzing of the mosquitoes beyond the windows.

K.C. Verma is former chief of R&AW. kcverma345@gmail.com