As a child, I enjoyed trips to the ancestral village, except for the times I visited during the monsoons.

You couldn& #39;t go out. The roads turned to mud; the mosquitos became ravenous; and the snakes venturous.

Consequently, there was little to do but to read moth-eaten books.

In the village, during the monsoon, the kumro (pumpkin) is the savior. After a few days, it is the arch-nemesis.

The question we asked: "what& #39;s for lunch?"

It was a rhetorical question, for every single day there would be another sliver of the wretched kumro made into ghonto.

In my early school years, to reach my ancestral village, we& #39;d have to go by bus and then bullock cart. And during the rains, we& #39;d walk the last kilometer barefoot in lateritic mud with sandals held in one hand.

It was all straight out of "Samapti" or Saratchandra& #39;s "Srikanta".

If you were a special visitor then villagers would catch a Rohu fish for you from the ponds using nets, but this took time since it was a process definitely more involved than going to Trader Joe& #39;s and picking up a swordfish steak from the freezer section.

I enjoyed those trips. I went on long walks. I learned how to fish. I heard ghost stories. I sat on hammocks for hours, reading morning newspapers delivered no earlier that late afternoons.