As children, we spent our summers between Ooty and Hyderabad — one cool, pleasant and infused with the fragrance of flowers, another hot and dry, but rich with history, its rocky terrain and giant boulders striking a note of other-worldliness in my childlike imagination.
And so, for the longest time, I’ve wanted to buy a place of my own in Ooty, and in Hyderabad too, one day — an old whitewashed home with a flat roof and a large courtyard, where in the old days we would pull out our cots swathed in mosquito nets to sleep under the stars as the cool, night breeze brought exquisite relief after the heat of the day; a day most often spent reading Famous Fives perched on flimsy guava trees, occasionally reaching out to bite into an unsweetened, hard guava that felt like a piece of heaven between my small, sharp teeth.
But those days are gone forever. My mother now lives in a quiet part of the Old City, where every once in a while, though, one stumbles across a cul-de-sac that hints of the mysteries of the past, or chances upon a decrepit mosque with a creamy-crocheted turret, and one realises that this must suffice, must be enough. Ooty’s right here: A trip down memory lane | The Indian Express