Paapalu Vachaaru! Tanvi Varigala The humid, balmy air with a hint of the salty sea sand. The rhythm of waves crashing against smooth, jagged rocks that paint the picture of a seascape. Rings of rolling green hills looming large like sentinels, protecting their kingdom. Ruins of the glorious past or the hauntingly serene presence of defunct lighthouses and forts. All the unmistakable characteristics of an East-Indian coastal town. Growing up with these scents, sounds and visuals often made me think of them as the backdrop against which the grand scheme of the universe unfolded; faded, blurry backgrounds against which stories unravelled. Until I realised that they weren’t just a part of the stories, they were the stories; until now. My earliest memories of a giddy, carefree childhood are from the endless summers spent with my grandparents and cousins in an idyllic coastal town called Visakhapatnam, a tad smaller than a city in the South Indian state of Andhra Pradesh. For someone who lived in the happening metropolitan of Hyderabad, summers in Vizag were a novelty and respite, mostly for my mother who would look forward to a little break from the exhaustion of raising a little monkey (no points for guessing!). It was the time when my grandmother would lovingly ply me with ghee-laden sweets and delicacies that I would savour all year long, while keeping up with my racing up and down the stairs of their two-storied villa. Summer in Vizag was always a whirlwind of time with cousins coming over for a quick game of hopscotch, countless trips to the beach, bagsful 97
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