Summer smelt of smoke and burnt leaves. Dry winter had sent up dust to settle on leaves. After January's harvest the womenfolk swept leaves off the backyards in preparation for Sivaratri. The dried cowdung cakes slow-burned under piles of husk sent up smoke in greeting to the scorching sun. Empty, dry paddy hosted umpteen fairs and festivals of tiny temples strewn all over the hamlets. Red clad shamans moved to the rhythm of drumbeats, the golden sickle of the goddess gleaming in the twilight sun. Inside the houses the air was rich with the aroma of ripe mangoes.

On the day before Vishu father would walk in with a box full of crackers. I always felt that he liked Vishu even more than Onam - it must have been to do with the pre-dawn feel of the rituals. By dawn the celebrations were almost over- it felt like a pleasant dream.

Then an eerie silence descened by May. It was as if the blazing sun subdued all other sounds and colours. Early mornings were mild with the dewy fragrance of nandiarvattam flowers. In the forenoons dragonflies went by hurriedly- they intended to wind up business before the angry sun caught them. The predominantly yellow western horizon had stray rainclouds by sunset. All there was left was the wait for monsoons.