When Summers Smelled of Mangoes and Naani’s Love(An ode to the Indian 90s childhood that Gen Z may never fully understand)

“Are we going to Naani’s house this summer?”

Just one question—and our whole world would light up.

If you grew up in the 90s in India, you didn’t need flight tickets or fancy resorts for a great summer. You needed one destination: Naani ka ghar.

It wasn’t just a place. It was magic.

Not just a house. It was home in its truest form.

The Journey Was the Real Adventure

Back then, summer started the moment the train tickets were confirmed.

Trains—not flights—were how we traveled. Hot air, open windows, steel tiffins, and bags tied with nylon ropes.

“The train was noisy, crowded, and sweaty—but every minute meant we were getting closer to love.”

You didn’t just go to Naani’s house—you traveled to it. The train was packed with people, snacks, and excitement. Bags tied with ropes, water bottles hanging from shoulders, and windows open wide to let in the hot, dusty wind.

“We took the train, not a flight. And those 24-hour journeys felt like a festival.”

Remember how cousins would fight over who gets the window seat? And how moms would pull out tiffins of parathas and mango pickle as soon as the train started moving?

Those train journeys were noisy, sweaty, and long—but no one complained. Because every chug of the train brought us closer to the people who loved us without rules.

At every stop, someone would buy orange ice sticks, samosas, or tea. We’d fight for the window seat. We’d stare at the tracks. We’d dream.

Cousins Were Our First Best Friends

The moment we arrived, we’d count how many cousins were already there.

All of us in one room, on the floor, sharing pillows, secrets, and ghost stories. No phones. No tablets. Just carrom, Ludo, and laughter.

“We didn’t need screens—we had each other.”

During blackouts, someone would light a candle, someone would start a story, and someone would scream even before the ghost arrived.

There were no “family WhatsApp groups.”

There were only rooms full of cousins, lying on the floor with thin cotton mattresses, sharing secrets under ceiling fans.

We didn't need phones or tablets. We had Ludo, carrom, and antakshari.

And when the power went out (which it often did), someone would start a ghost story—and we’d all scream and hide under one bedsheet.

“We didn’t need 100MBPS Wi-Fi. We had unlimited laughter.”

Naani’s House Had Its Own Language

Walking into Naani’s house was like stepping into a world full of smells and memories.

The smell of ripe mangoes in buckets of water.

The sharp, spicy air when pickles were being made on the terrace.

The sound of the pressure cooker in the kitchen and someone yelling, “TV chhota karo!”

And always—always—the love in Naani’s eyes when she opened the door and said,

“Aa gaye mere bacche?” she’d say, wiping her hands on her saree.

That sentence held more welcome than any hotel check-in ever could.

No Summer Camps. Just Summer Freedom.

“We were sunburnt, sweaty, bruised—but never bored.”

Today’s kids go to summer camps. They learn swimming, painting, coding.

We learned something else.

We learned how to climb trees, how to ride a bicycle that was too big, how to play cricket with a broken bat and bricks for wickets. We learned how to fall, get hurt, cry, and laugh again—all in the same hour.

There were no “playdates.” You just went outside and came back only when someone called you for lunch—or when it got dark.

“We came home tired, dusty, hungry—but never bored.”

Once, I remember falling off a swing we made with ropes on the neem tree. My cousin laughed, I cried, and Naani gave me aam panna and a pat on the back. That was life. That was love.

A House That Raised All of Us

"Naani ka Ghar Was a Feeling, Not a Place"

That house was never big. But our joy was.

Ten people slept in one room. No one complained.We fought over Rasna flavors. We shared soaps. We listened to the same stories every summer—and still laughed.

Naani told tales of her childhood, of partition, of mango thieves. Her stories stitched the past into our present.

Once, my cousin Anu and I tried to steal raw mangoes from the neighbor’s tree. We got caught, scolded, and then fed fresh mango slices with salt and red chili by Naani.

“Galti toh ki thi, par maa jaisi daant bhi toh mili.”

That’s what Naani’s house did—it forgave, it hugged, it fed.

Where Did Those Summers Go?

Today, that house might be locked. The cousins are grown up. WhatsApp has replaced summer reunions. Flights replaced trains. Busy replaced bonding.

But sometimes—just sometimes—you hear a train, or smell a mango, and your heart whispers:

“I miss Naani ka ghar.”

Let’s Keep the Feeling Alive

Maybe we can’t bring back the exact summers we had. But we can pass on the feeling.

Maybe your kids will never know what it was like.But you can show them.

Take your kids on a train. Let them sleep on a mattress on the floor. Tell them ghost stories. Teach them to play carrom. Let them meet the people who love them for who they are, not what they achieve.

Because what we had wasn’t just a place. It was a feeling. And feelings can be passed on.

“Resorts are fun. But love? Love was packed in steel tiffins, slept under mosquito nets, and called you beta before your name.”

A Small Reminder Before You Go...

“Five-star resorts gave us memories. But Naani gave us childhood.”

To All Those Who Miss Those Summers...

Don’t just remember. Share.

Tell your kids about your Naani. Call your cousins. Plan a trip not to escape life, but to return to a part of it.

Because some places aren’t marked on the map.

They live in our hearts.

They are called:

Naani ka Ghar.

Don’t let those summers fade away. Tell your kids where your heart still lives.

In a place that smelled of mangoes, Rasna, and unconditional love. In a place called Naani ka ghar.