Summers of Togetherness
Our village visits were incomplete without my cousins.
They would arrive from Tuticorin, Madurai, and Salem, and suddenly the quiet house would burst into laughter.
We bathed under the pump set, screaming when the cold water hit us.
We fetched water from the well, carefully pulling up the heavy buckets.
Sometimes we used the municipality pump when the elders allowed.
We ran barefoot across the courtyard, played hide and seek behind coconut trees, and sat together sharing stories under the open sky.
My grandfather’s house was the first one when you entered the village.
Right opposite stood a small primary school.
During breaks, teachers would come to rest at our house. My grandmother would serve them hot coffee, snacks, and sometimes meals. She always sent them back with tender coconuts, lemon pickle, or vegetables from the farm — not as charity, but with deep respect for their role in shaping young minds.
As children, we would sit in the classroom with village kids.
We tried teaching them English words we barely knew ourselves.
In return, they taught us native games, folk songs, and simple joys that city life never offered.
Those days taught me something important — happiness does not need luxury.
It only needs people, love, and togetherness.
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