The Lost Warmth of Summer

Summer used to arrive not with a hum of machines, but with a certain kind of anticipation; raw, simple, and deeply human. Today, summer feels like something to be managed rather than experienced. It means switching on the AC in the room before stepping in, ensuring the car is cooled before a drive, booking an air-conditioned cab, layering sunscreen generously, and constantly hydrating with packaged juices and fancy elixirs. Comfort has taken center stage, and survival often seems to depend on technology shielding us from the season.

And to be fair, some of that comfort matters. The heat today can be harsher, cities more unforgiving, and access to cooling isn’t just luxury; it’s relief, sometimes even necessity. But even as we protect ourselves better, something quieter seems to have slipped away.

Because this version of summer feels distant from the one we once knew as children.

Back then, summer was not something we escaped, it was something we lived. The heat didn’t push us indoors; it shaped our creativity. We would wet the window curtains and wait for the breeze to pass through, turning it into nature’s own air cooler. Nights were spent on mattresses laid out on the floor, sometimes even on terraces, with the faint warmth of the day slowly fading into a comforting lull.

There was a quiet thrill in the little rituals, buying Rasna pouches, carefully mixing them, and freezing them into makeshift ice popsicles that tasted better than anything store-bought. Mangoes weren’t just fruits; they were an event. Sticky hands, juice dripping down elbows, and the hopeful act of burying seeds in the soil, imagining a tree would one day grow. It didn’t matter that those seeds often disappeared; the joy was in the believing.

And then there was the ice cream man, his arrival announced by that familiar call of “Golden!”, a sound that could send an entire neighborhood of children running out with coins clutched tightly in their hands. No app notifications, no scheduled deliveries, just pure, unscripted excitement.

Summer meant scraped knees, dusty feet, shared laughter, and long, lazy afternoons filled with stories and games. It meant bonding, with friends, cousins, siblings, and even strangers who became playmates for a season. It was a time when happiness didn’t need to be curated; it simply happened.

Perhaps summers haven’t really changed, only the way we experience them has. Somewhere along the way, we traded a bit of simplicity for convenience, imagination for comfort. And while today’s summers may offer relief from the heat, they often miss the warmth of those memories.

Maybe, every once in a while, it’s worth turning off the AC, opening a window, and letting the outside in, the dry wind carrying the smell of sun-warmed dust, the distant echo of a street vendor’s call, the slow, stubborn heat settling on your skin, not to escape it, but to remember how it once felt to belong to it.