<p>The recent heatwave brought back memories of my childhood. Of times when the heat used to drive very many of us to sleep in the open, on the terrace. There were some ceiling fans in the house, no doubt; under its whirring slow blades slept the elders. The younger lot on the terrace.</p>.<p>Sleeping on the terrace involved some preparatory work. You first swept it clean just before dusk. Then you sprinkled water. The water sizzled on the hot surface. After an hour or so you sprinkled water once again. This cooled the surface. For a good measure you also wet the straw mat that was used as a mattress; let it dry for some time and then stretched yourself on it.</p>.<p>As one drifted into sleep, wafting through the dull breeze, as if like lullaby, were the sounds of songs from a neighbourhood theatre. Since movies, typically, especially if it was of the venerable MGR, used to run for 100+ days, you could hear these songs for at least a 100 days. That was the least. And I always wondered if the theatre yanked up the volume when the songs played -- because much as we strained our ears, we could not discern the dialogues. But the songs and tunes are imprinted in memory to this day. And when I hear these songs now, they trigger memories throwing me back to my terrace -- pure unadulterated nostalgia: When nothing mattered, and life was simple; when the hyperbole of the cheesy lyrics ‘in the heart which is like a temple, I need a God, so come my love, come my love ’ sounded like pure poetry.</p>.<p>The hard surface we slept on mattered little – we purred in sheer satisfaction. We watched the clear sky and covered ourselves in a blanket of shining stars. And woke up invigorated. </p>.<p>I long now to sleep on the terrace. For the sheer nostalgia . But God bless the mosquitoes of Bengaluru. It is as if they wait for us as the sun sets and greet us with a ferocious passion. They feast on you. I do not dare venture to sleep on the terrace anymore, however fierce the summer heat is.</p>.<p>I sleep now on ortho mattresses in a room cooled by an air conditioner. I invariably have to switch it off mid-way through the night. I get up feeling stiff. I rack my brain...did we have mosquitoes back then? They must have been alive then too, I am sure. But I have no memories of them -- they must have been gentler or the lilting music from the theatre made us oblivious of theur buzz and sting.</p>.<p>Like all other things mosquitoes too seem to have changed with the times. I lie down now and stare at the ceiling. And think of the stars beyond. And the days gone by.</p>
<p>The recent heatwave brought back memories of my childhood. Of times when the heat used to drive very many of us to sleep in the open, on the terrace. There were some ceiling fans in the house, no doubt; under its whirring slow blades slept the elders. The younger lot on the terrace.</p>.<p>Sleeping on the terrace involved some preparatory work. You first swept it clean just before dusk. Then you sprinkled water. The water sizzled on the hot surface. After an hour or so you sprinkled water once again. This cooled the surface. For a good measure you also wet the straw mat that was used as a mattress; let it dry for some time and then stretched yourself on it.</p>.<p>As one drifted into sleep, wafting through the dull breeze, as if like lullaby, were the sounds of songs from a neighbourhood theatre. Since movies, typically, especially if it was of the venerable MGR, used to run for 100+ days, you could hear these songs for at least a 100 days. That was the least. And I always wondered if the theatre yanked up the volume when the songs played -- because much as we strained our ears, we could not discern the dialogues. But the songs and tunes are imprinted in memory to this day. And when I hear these songs now, they trigger memories throwing me back to my terrace -- pure unadulterated nostalgia: When nothing mattered, and life was simple; when the hyperbole of the cheesy lyrics ‘in the heart which is like a temple, I need a God, so come my love, come my love ’ sounded like pure poetry.</p>.<p>The hard surface we slept on mattered little – we purred in sheer satisfaction. We watched the clear sky and covered ourselves in a blanket of shining stars. And woke up invigorated. </p>.<p>I long now to sleep on the terrace. For the sheer nostalgia . But God bless the mosquitoes of Bengaluru. It is as if they wait for us as the sun sets and greet us with a ferocious passion. They feast on you. I do not dare venture to sleep on the terrace anymore, however fierce the summer heat is.</p>.<p>I sleep now on ortho mattresses in a room cooled by an air conditioner. I invariably have to switch it off mid-way through the night. I get up feeling stiff. I rack my brain...did we have mosquitoes back then? They must have been alive then too, I am sure. But I have no memories of them -- they must have been gentler or the lilting music from the theatre made us oblivious of theur buzz and sting.</p>.<p>Like all other things mosquitoes too seem to have changed with the times. I lie down now and stare at the ceiling. And think of the stars beyond. And the days gone by.</p>