Of Lazy Afternoons, Rainy Day Paper Boats: A Love Letter to '90s Summer Vacations

"Summer afternoon, summer afternoon; to me those have always been the two most beautiful words in the English language." — Henry James.

There was a time when summers didn't arrive with checklists and to-do apps. A time when summer vacations meant truly switching off without aeroplane mode. No deadlines, no glowing screens, just time in its raw, unfiltered form. For those of us who grew up in the '90s in India, summer wasn't just a season. It was a pause button on growing up, and a quiet kind of happiness that didn't need much.

It was Rasna in steel glasses. Chalky streets. Mangoes ripening in gunny bags. It was comic books with crumpled corners, ceiling fans that hummed lullabies, and the slow, sleepy drone of afternoon television. Summer vacation meant slowing down and slipping into a rhythm that belonged to no one else but us.

The Train That Took Us Home 

For many of us, the first sign of summer wasn't the rising temperature, but the rustle of suitcases. Every year, thousands of families packed for their ancestral homes. The journey itself was a story, sleeper coaches with flasks of tea, windows that opened to dusty fields, vendors shouting "garam samosa!" and the ever-magical discovery of how cool water tasted from a terracotta matka. At the other end of the journey waited grandparents. 

Grandparents' Homes: The Real Resorts 

Our grandparents didn't need Pinterest to create magic. Their homes were scented with pickles drying in the sun and the smoky sweetness of jaggery tea. You knew it was a '90s summer afternoon when the fan made a tired clicking noise, the electricity cut out, and everyone gathered under one roof with hand fans and sharbat.

You'd hear stories from a time before yours. You'd listen to tales about Partition, lost friends, mango trees that bore sweeter fruit "back then," and how they managed without telephones. You didn't need a history book. It lived at home. The slow rhythm of their world gave us something we didn't know we were being gifted, stillness.

The Joy of Doing Nothing 

What we now call mindfulness, we used to call boredom. In the '90s, boredom wasn’t something to be feared. It was a natural state that brought with it the most curious kind of creativity. We made games out of bottle caps, built castles with mud, and raced ants for fun. We counted ceiling fan blades. We traced shapes in the dust. We lay on cool floors just to feel the earth. You learned that you didn't need to be entertained every second to feel alive.

In a world that now rewards hustle and "content," '90s summer taught us how to be quietly full.

Rains, Paper Boats, and Everything In Between 

There was a joy in the first rainfall that phones can never capture. It wasn't for reels or photographs. You'd run barefoot onto balconies, place your tongue out like a daredevil and hear the thunder like a bedtime drumroll. And then, you'd take out an old notebook page, fold it neatly, and make a boat. You'd watch it glide through muddy water and feel strangely accomplished. It was something passed down, learned by watching older cousins and mimicking the folds. It was something we took pride in. Something we never thought we’d forget.

Time Measured in Light and Laughter 

We didn't measure time in alarms or schedules. We measured it in changing light. Morning sunshine meant cricket in the gully. Afternoon heat meant hiding inside with Champak or Tinkle. Evenings were for walks to the neighborhood paan shop with an uncle, or a trip to buy kulfi wrapped in newspaper.

Bedtime didn't need white noise machines. It came with a grandmother's soft lullaby, a dim yellow bulb, and the chirp of crickets outside. And when power cuts happened, which they did often, there was no panic. We gathered,  laughed. We told ghost stories and pretended to be brave. That darkness lit something warm inside us.

Friendships That Weren't Online 

Friendships in the '90s were stitched together with thread, sweat, and secrets. They were formed over marbles, rubber bands, and hours of shared boredom. You didn't need to follow someone, you just rang their doorbell. Plans weren't made, they happened. And when someone moved away, you wrote them a letter. A real one. With ink and stamps and waiting. These friendships taught us patience, presence, and the beauty of now. No "last seen." No ghosting. Just showing up.

What We Carried Into Adulthood 

Today, we are older. Busier. Caught in pixels and projects. Our calendars are full, and our phones are never silent. But every once in a while, something tugs, a smell of raw mango, a whirring ceiling fan, a sudden downpour, and we're transported. 

Today, we're racing through life. Even children are on schedules. The summers have become shorter, not just in calendar days, but in spirit. Maybe that's why we still romanticise the '90s so much. Not because they were perfect, but because they were designed for pause. They made space for emotions. For boredom. For longing. For connection.

Back to a simpler time

To a version of ourselves who didn't need filters to feel seen. Who didn't need validation to feel valued? Who didn't need plans to feel purpose?

This is for the child in you. The one who knew how to be still. The one who could lie under the stars without photographing them. The one who could find magic in boredom. It's a love letter to the slow summers that shaped us, to the afternoons that taught us that rest is not a sin, and to a generation who knew that the best memories aren't made, they happen quietly, in between.

A Letter to Remember 

The art of being present, of letting time pass without urgency, is still within us. That Rasna and pickles and comic books may have been replaced by devices, but the human need for slow joy hasn't gone away.

So if you find yourself stuck in a loop of deadlines and scrolls, take a moment. Step out into the sun. Remember the paper boats. Remember the silence. Write a letter to your own childhood, and maybe, float it into the breeze. Because somewhere, a '90s summer still waits for you to come home.

"Childhood is the most beautiful of all life's seasons." 

I wasn't a '90s kid, but I grew up hearing stories of that decade, tales told over dinner tables, old photo albums, and by grandparents who passed down the magic of those slow summers. Stories of mango-stained hands, Doordarshan marathons, and long power cuts that turned into family bonding time. Even though I didn't live those years myself, I've always felt their warmth in secondhand memories. Maybe that's why the nostalgia still feels like mine.

So this is my love letter, stitched together with borrowed warmth and imagined summers. 

Views expressed by the author are their own.