In an old house, that doesn't exist anymore, which had a nice courtyard, where a magenta hibiscus flourished and grew as tall as to show up on the roof, and which had two ponds to each side, the one on the right with fish aplenty and that on the left, abandoned to the wild, covered with hyacinth and huge bougainvillea trees leaning in like lovers and a rather obscure tree which bore huge citrus fruits which tasted like a distant cousin of an orange, quietly stood by, lived a family with several children, who chased chickens all day, played with wild flowers and lay on grass and waited, relentlessly for the mango season. And for autumn.
In autumn, the schools closed for festivities. Several cousins, uncles and aunts came down from cities and there were too many people for the old house, that some slept on the roof and some bathed in the river. The children, draped in new clothes, took trips to nearby villages and visited all the pooja pandals, shopped for trinkets and toys. But soon the holidays ran out and people had to go back. The night before such a day would feel desolate already, even though everyone was still there, the packed suitcases and bags dulled the mood. The children, of all beings, were the most heart broken.
Amidst things like these, an old uncle fetched all the children, from age four to sixteen and take them on an impromptu trip to the cabbage fields. The cold of winter would still be mild but mothers would have wrapped the little ones in mufflers and sweaters. The entourage would walk nimbly on muddied streets, carefully and then race when the road got better, some holding hands, staying together, others walking astray, wild and free, but still one as a pack, guided by the uncle's voice, and his bright torch light that lit up the path ahead. The dim bulbs that hung from lamp posts were good for nothing except attracting buzzing insects.
They walked by a canal that brimmed and the moon shone pretty in it. Ghost stories were narrated, much to the chagrin of the little ones. Upon many requests, they were traded for other stories, of zamindars and kings. They reached the nearest pooja pandal which was being retired, the goddess had been submerged in the canal earlier that day, there was a strange vacuum everywhere. The balloon sellers and snack sellers had vanished. The streets were still strewn with flowers and the air was still fragrant.
Then the platoon planned on returning, but uncle had a change of plans. He took the children to the vegetable fields. Whose vegetable fields those were, nobody knew. But they all walked in like they owned it. There was a not a soul nearby. Everything was dark, but for the moonlight, and twinkling immortal stars. The children touched and plucked tomatoes and chilies and cucumbers. Most of all, the cabbage fields took their collective breaths away, amazed with rows of green flowers, growing from the soil, flashing in torch light, they felt surreal. Uncle inspected the cabbages himself and the children followed suit, before marching back home victorious. They had conquered their fear of having to go back.
They washed their hands and feet and sat in a row in the courtyard and feasted on hot chapatis, baked on the open fire.