Summer in Ooty

Hmmm… contrary to what most people love about Ooty, the mist and the biting frost, I’ve always loved its bright, sunlit days. 

The sky would stretch out in a clear, unapologetic blue, with wisps of white drifting lazily, framed by deep bottle-green pine leaves that shimmered like they were dressed up for an occasion.

 Ufff… what a sight.

The beauty of it? It never got unbearably hot. Sweating in Ooty was a rare thing, unless you’d been running wild or playing your heart out. Otherwise, you stayed as fresh as a cucumber, the day never weighing you down.

You could bask in the sun, roll around on the lawn, and sip on cool lemonade or Rasna that mom had so lovingly made, while she yelled from the kitchen, asking us to stop being lazy and come get our own glasses.

If there was a terrace, summer meant mattresses laid out to dry, soaking in the sun. We’d grab umbrellas, settle onto them like it was the most natural thing, play Monopoly, and slowly drift into naps under that little patch of shade… only to wake up when lunch called.

And indoors? 

Always cool. Always welcoming. Like they knew you needed a quiet pause after a day spent chasing the sun.

Some of my fondest memories trace back to my grandad’s house. The first floor was still under construction back then. On days the workers didn’t show up, my brother and I would sneak in. There were wooden pillars standing tall, heaps of sand in every room, and a large cement water tank catching sunlight like it was holding pieces of the sky.We turned that space into our own little world.Jumping into sand piles. Sitting by the tank, dipping our feet in, pretending it was a pond.

Splish. Splash. Splosh…

We’d laugh, sing, and play like time didn’t exist.

On lucky days, my grandad, our dear 'Iya' would bring us ice cream. I’d try to save half for later… only to come back to an empty cup, courtesy of my brother. Betrayal never tasted so sweet.There was a bottlebrush tree in the narrow front yard, almost always in bloom. An old saree from granny became our makeshift hammock, we’d swing endlessly, taking turns, refusing to get off.

And then, the revetment wall. Quiet, sturdy, and full of life. Every year, birds would nest in its tiny gaps. We’d peek in, fascinated, watching the little ones chirp away, until the mother bird swooped down, fiercely protective, chasing us back inside.

The days were filled with birdsong, the soft fragrance of jasmine near the door, and a kind of happiness that didn’t need explaining.

Just simple, sunlit moments, that quietly turned into memories you carry for a lifetime.