The charm of the 80s school vacation and and the endless triumph of imagination over possession

May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. We’d already be five or six weeks into our summer holidays by the time May came along, and as the air swelled, we’d walk around, our limbs heavy and our minds dulled, boredom a physical weight sitting on top of our heads. At Thrissur station, she’d buy us medu vada, or if it was the afternoon train, banana fritters wrapped in a leaf, the oil leaking into our hands and glistening around our lips. No matter how angry we made her, eventually around April 14, when the festival of Vishu came around, she’d soften, waking us up at 4 am, her hands covering our eyes as she walked us one after the other and made us sit in the room, where she’d have assembled everything yellow: a mango and some cassia flowers, a heap of rice, some gold coins, a bronze lit lamp, and she made us look first at ourselves in the mirror, and then at this bounty of golden hue and wished for us a year of peace and prosperity. Nature’s way When we were a little older, probably nine and ten, our neighbour from the township, a childless couple who loved us immensely, moved to their village home.