Lemonade

A Special Edit.

I had just moved to India from the US in 1989, and as a 6 year old, my first summer here felt almost unbearably hot. The kind of heat that slows everything down and makes you crave something cold before you even ask for it. Today I found myself thinking of frequent visits to one of my aunts’ places during those days. Part of the excitement wasn’t just reaching there, but the journey itself — especially riding the double-decker buses in Mumbai, sitting upstairs by the window, the city rushing past in warm, golden light. Waiting at the bus stop, several regular buses would come and go promising to get us home faster….but I would make a plea to my parents to wait for the double-decker one. Because to this little girl who had been brought suddenly into such a crowded and buzzing city, being so high up and feeling the wind in my hair made me feel as if I were flying peacefully.

When we arrived, the ceiling fans would be whirring, the air heavy and bright. Almost instinctively, my aunt would head into the kitchen and return with her own version of lemonade — squeezed by hand, adjusted not by measurement — only instinct & experience, a little more salt here, a little more sugar there. Every glass had its own balance, its own quiet signature. It was never just a drink; it felt personal, thoughtful, made-for-us — so unlike how today we’re all, more often than not, handed the same chilled “cold drink” — identical, convenient, forgettable. And maybe that’s why the memory feels so vivid: it wasn’t only about cooling down. It was about those small, handmade gestures that made an ordinary summer afternoon feel special.