Summertime

It has been some thirty years since I have lived in the United States of America. I had lived almost the same number of years in India before that.My experience of summer depended on which part of India I happened to be in at that time. From the scorching nosebleed provoking heat of the Gangetic plains to the cool misty days in the eastern Himalayas, I endured the former and clung to the latter for as long as possible. But for me it was always a season of transition. Moving from a crisp foggy winter, lit by a weak sunlight to a glorious monsoon, with the high drama of rain, thunder and lightning, needed this transition. The sigh and the pause of the wilted and waiting souls that scanned the skies anxiously for those life giving clouds that came riding on the 'poorvaiyyan'- the East wind.
     The years went by; I moved from one continent to another. The seasons changed with a different pace and with a different meaning. No longer sheltered by mountains as high as the Himalayas, the flat centre of North America was whipped by the frigid Arctic winds that roared in from the North, stabbing with a knife like edge. This was the determined by the vagaries of the Jet Stream. It buckled this way and that- and behind its bulge came the intense cold. I encountered unbelievable temperatures like minus 30 degrees Celsius. How could people survive this I wondered the first winter I spent here, sliding away without any control on a sheet of smooth ice that seamlessly spread from the rear service steps of our apartment complex to the parking lot!
     Chicago burst out of its wicked winter suddenly in April. Overnight, the ice receded into dirty oily heaps by the roads. Pigeons flew about in a frenzy, feeding their newly hatched babies, who lived in untidy ramshackle nests, built on any horizontal surface the parents could find. The squirrels were busy foraging in garbage cans, carrying away food to their nests. The tips of the bare tree branches would fill with sap and get a reddish tinge- as the buds would swell and leaves would suddenly emerge one day. Ah! pretty spring- shy and tentative, would hasten back with the sudden reappearance of the North winds now and then.
     Then it would finally be Summer.The limpid warm days starting with glorious pink dawns. Under the canopy of trees- the stately elms and untidy maples, people would walk, dogs would trot and runners would run. Thousands would drink coffee and go to work, no longer slouching half buried in winter coats. Children would play, ride their bicycles, shout to each other, drink lemonade they intended to sell at their lemonade stands. No longer would one have to be slave to jackets, gloves, scarves, hats and boots. One could leave the house feeling light and unhindered. The evening air smelled of grills and cooking meats. Somewhere a screen door would slam shut. The cool air would descend slowly as fireflies would twinkle amongst the bushes and cicadas would call to each other.The first time I heard the song, I was transfixed. I did not know who sang it, who wrote it or what it was. I didn't care, I listened without daring to breathe-
'Summertime
And the livin' is easy,
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high.
Oh yo' daddy's rich
An' yo' ma is good lookin'
So hush, little baby,
Don't you cry.
One of these mornin's,
You's gonna rise up singin'
Then you'll spread yo' wings
An' you'll take to the sky.
But till that mornin',
There's ain't nothin' can harm you
With your Daddy an' Mummy
Standin' by'
     This , I learned, was a song from Gershwin's Porgy and Bess.It brought to me two new loves; one of American music and the other was of summer.
Posted by LinaS at 9:47 PM

The incomparable Ella Fitzgerald sings it...



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