In the drowsy heat of Punjab summers, my grandfather's house stood like a sanctuary of childhood delights. I was twelve that year, and time seemed to flow like honey – sweet, slow, and golden. The whitewashed walls of his home rose above a garden that, to my young eyes, felt as vast as a kingdom, with every corner holding the promise of adventure. Morning light would filter through the mango leaves, creating dappled patterns on the ground that danced with the breeze. Old Sundar, our gardener, moved through the garden like a quiet guardian, his weathered hands tending to Grandfather's prized roses with the gentleness of a poet. Red, pink, and yellow blooms stood in proud rows, their fragrance mixing with the earthy scent of marigolds that bordered the paths. The garden was my wilderness. Among the spreading mango trees, I built elaborate hideouts, draping old sheets between branches to create fortresses that could withstand any imaginary siege. The ancient almond trees and twisting grape vines became my secret allies, offering shelter from the afternoon sun and convenient escape routes during games of hide and seek with the neighborhood children who would inevitably find their way to our garden. In the heart of the afternoon, when the sun ruled the sky with fierce determination, the verandah became our refuge. Grandfather would settle into his favorite wicker chair, and time would slow even further as he shared stories that spanned generations. The jasmine climbing the lattice would release its perfume into the evening air, while china cups clinked gently with the rhythm of his tales. Relief from the heat came in simple pleasures – the musical gurgle of water from the garden hose, the steady hum of the tubewell that supplied life to our green haven. As evening approached, the koyals would begin their melodious calls from the fruit trees, their songs carrying across the patch of land where Grandfather's cow grazed contentedly. These sounds became the soundtrack of my summer days. The old kothis near our house held their own mysterious charm. We would explore their shadowy corners, inventing stories about their history, our imaginations running as wild as the vines that crept up their weathered walls. The neighborhood children and I formed a tight-knit band of adventurers, our daily expeditions ranging from treasure hunts in these abandoned buildings to elaborate games that would last until our mothers' calls for dinner echoed across the gardens. Grandmother's kitchen was another world entirely. There, time moved to the rhythm of rolling pins on chaklas, the sizzle of spices in hot oil, and the soft pat-pat of her expert hands shaping rotis. She would let me help with small tasks, teaching me the secrets of her recipes with patient words and gentle corrections. The kitchen's warmth was different from the summer heat – it was the warmth of love and tradition, passed down through generations like her precious spice box. As night fell, the courtyard became our bedroom under the stars. Lying on the charpoy, watching fireflies dance and stars twinkle in the velvet sky, I would feel the day's adventures settle into my bones like precious sediment. The night air would carry the lingering fragrance of night-blooming jasmine, and sometimes, if we were lucky, the distant strains of someone playing a harmonium would drift over the sleeping town. That summer lives in my memory like a perfectly preserved photograph – the taste of sun-warmed mangoes picked straight from the tree, the cool touch of marble floors against bare feet, the symphony of afternoon crickets, and the gentle presence of my grandparents weaving it all together. In Grandfather's garden, summer wasn't just a season; it was a state of being, a golden pause between childhood and whatever lay beyond, where every day held the promise of a new adventure, and time was measured not in hours but in moments of joy.