Before iPads and Reels: This Is What Real Summers at Naani’s House Looked Like

Summers at Naani’s house began before dawn. Even before the first bird call, the house stirred to life. The early morning air was crisp and unspoiled—no smog, no exhaust. The garden, just beyond a low courtyard wall, was lush with hibiscus, marigolds, and guava trees swaying in the gentle breeze. Dew on the leaves shimmered in the soft light, undisturbed by the buzz of electronics or traffic.
Grandma—or Naani, as everyone lovingly called her—would be out watering plants in a simple cotton kurta and slippers. Her presence was soothing, tangible proof that summers were meant for breathing and being, not scrolling and streaming. The kitchen window was open, and from it drifted the aroma of fresh ginger tea. She would soon call everyone in for “tea and some breakfast before the sun got too strong.”
Breakfast was a ritual. It wasn’t just fuel—it was a moment to sit together, speak slowly and meaningfully. If it was mango season, the table might hold slices of Aamras (sweet mango pulp) with soft puris. In other months, it could be fluffy idlis with coconut chutney or warm aloo parathas dipped in yogurt. There were no instant powders—every chutney ground fresh, every batter fermented overnight.
Between bites, cousins and siblings recounted their dreams or made plans for the day. This time was free from interruptions—no smartphones to buzz, no apps vying for attention. The focus was the here and now: the scent of chai, the taste of ripe fruit, the voices around the table. Naani might tell a short proverb or memory from her childhood, a tradition of gentle storytelling that bound the generations together.
By mid-morning, the courtyard sprang to life. A makeshift pitch would appear—often just a bit of chalk or a stone to mark the wicket. All that was needed was a tennis ball, a bamboo bat, and a few eager participants ready to wield sweat and laughter rather than batteries. Even in blistering heat, the game dragged on—rotating fielders, animated taunts, and one triumphant shout when someone hit a clean boundary against the split walls.
When energy flagged or the sun climbed too high, the children would retreat indoors. The hall lights would be off—the power might have been erratic anyway—and they'd roll bamboo mats or blankets onto the cool stone floor. Someone would suggest an impromptu charades match, a treasure hunt with clues scribbled hastily on paper, or a round of treasure-filled pillow forts. The excitement lay in collaboration and imagination, not in curated digital content.

Lunch at Naani’s house was another unhurried affair. Rice, dal, seasonal vegetables, a simple salad and buttermilk—each dish echoing the rhythms of home cooking. Each bite seemed richer for the day’s earlier activities, bringing a sleepy satisfaction. And when midday settled in, everything slowed again.
The siesta was almost sacred. Rooms dimmed, windows open to let in just enough breeze—the perfect blend of warmth and calm. Cousins sprawled out but never napped at the same time—someone always stayed awake to feel the weightlessness of the afternoon hush. They talked about cricket scores, argued friendly about which was the best mango variety, or just lay listening to the hush of cicadas outside. It was languid but not lazy, restful but alive.

By late afternoon, rest turned into creativity. Some children would coax Naani into giving them a cooking lesson: how to roll rotis just right, knead dough till it was soft, grind chutney in the old stone mortar. Cooking together was tactile learning and laughter in equal measure: flour everywhere, occasional roti that came out too thick—but so delicious because it was homemade.
Others ventured beyond the compound. A neighbor’s mango orchard was a common destination, bounding over dusty lanes, calling to each other across fields of sugarcane. Along the way, there’d be stops—one child playing a twig flute, another picking wildflowers to tuck behind her ear. The village pump, now just a decorative relic, was a favorite meeting point. A makeshift swing hung from a banyan tree for impromptu giggles.
When they returned, hands were dusty, garments streaked with sweat, and the air smelled of earth and summer. Naani would welcome them back with a tall glass of sweet lassi or a cup of masala chai pouréd over crushed ice (“chaas,” she’d say mischievously). The kids gulped it down, shoving chai-stained glasses at each other, unwilling to wait for anyone to say “cheers.”

Evenings at Naani’s were full of purpose. After a quick freshening up, the whole family gathered in the courtyard again. The sky carried hues of orange and rose. Domestic pigeons would circle low, roosting on the wooden rafters. Someone always took delight in coaxing them toward the grated feeders, scattering small seeds and watching them flutter.
Then came the evening porch circle. No electricity? No problem. A single hurricane lantern illuminated faces as Naani began another folk tale—maybe about a clever rabbit, a dutiful child, or ancient queens. Everyone leaned in, captivated. These were tales no book or film could convey; the cadence of her voice, her dramatic pauses, the individual mannerisms, all etched each story into memory.
After stories, the menor-like glow revealed impromptu performances: song, dance, mimicry of village folk, or episodes of “guess the animal” enacted through silly gestures. The air hummed with laughter, applause, and sometimes playful boos. The entertainment was real-time, real-bonding.

Dinner mirrored lunch—simple, unpretentious, deeply satisfying. Roti, dal, seasonal chutney, perhaps some stuffed paratha or mild korma. The seasoning came from familiarity, affection, and generational wisdom, not from elaborate recipes. Eating together under the open sky, the family felt connected—to the earth, to the past, and to each other.
After sunset, the courtyard became a haven of fireflies. Tiny pinpricks of light floated among the shrubs and behind the swing. Children hunted them gently in old matchboxes, releasing them later with reverent hands. Without flashlights or phones, they relied on darkness and the bioluminescence of these little creatures. It felt magical, intimate, almost sacred.
When nighttime wound down, there would be final cups of warm masala milk infused with turmeric, honey, and a whisper of cardamom. Grandpa, mostly silent during the day, often joined for this moment—how could a summer at Naani’s be complete without him? Together they’d sit on the doorstep, the air cooling, stars visible without light pollution. No one rushed to bed; no one was thinking of deadlines or screen time.

Day after day, the pattern repeated. The courtyard games, folk tales, cooking experiments, and mango hunts spun together to form a sacred ritual. Each day felt like part of something larger—an unfolding story of belonging and rootedness. There were no digital markers of time, no online streaks. Instead, time was measured in mango seasons, the depth of twilight, the thickness of shadows, and the hushed moments when cicadas shifted from afternoon rasp to evening hum.
Conversations drifted to schoolwork and distant cousins. Some children missed their gadgets and asked for them; others didn’t remember their existence until they tried swapping stories with their city-dwelling cousins later. Even then, many admitted that the village time felt more grounded—in memory, in self, in relationships.
Contrast this with today’s summers, often defined by blue light and curated content. iPads delivered instant amusement. Reels provided distraction and gratification. Online tutors taught new skills. While convenient and novel, these experiences are sometimes ephemeral—likes and comments fading within hours, content replaced by fresh posts. Meanwhile, children at Naani’s lived stories that lingered for decades.
With screens, summers are measured in screen-time limits, app installs, and followers—ephemeral metrics that refer outward. Without screens, as in Naani’s courtyard, summers measured themselves inward: through friendships deepened, stories shared, skills learned, and a slower pace that allowed childhood wonder to flourish.

Revisiting summers at Naani’s house teaches us something profound. It reminds us that time spent in nature, creativity, and human presence builds something digital cannot replicate. It shapes our patience, storytelling, resilience, and sense of belonging. Cooking with bare hands connects us to earth; mosquito bites and heat teach us to laugh at discomfort; chasing pigeons teaches observation and care.
These summers may seem simple, but in their patterns lie timeless lessons. Creativity flourished when no app dictated how to begin. Community thrived when everyone contributed to play and meals. Stories passed from one generation to the next became living cultural anchors, not online trends destined for obsolescence.

Summers at Naani’s house were more than just breaks from school—they were immersive experiences in living. No screens, no schedules, no distractions—just rich connection rooted in family, culture, nature, and creativity. They came with mangoes and cricket, but also with long silences to dream in. Summers measured in memories—not minutes.
Gen Z summers, filled with digital wonders, are exciting in their own ways. But the 90s taught us something irreplaceable: that slowing down opens room for depth. That childhood magic lives in dirt-smeared fingertips, torch-lit storytelling, and firefly-lit night skies. And while time moves on, these lessons endure: our screens may fade, but the summers at Naani’s—the joyful, messy, soulful summers—are forever.
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1. What made summers at Naani’s house so special for 90s kids?The joy of bonding over mangoes, games, and family traditions made it magical.
2. How are Gen Z summer vacations different from those of the 90s?Gen Z summers revolve around screens, while 90s summers were full of real-life adventure and connection.
3. Why do people miss 90s summer vacations so much?Because they offered simplicity, warmth, and irreplaceable memories that no gadget can recreate.