Serenity is the word which comes to mind when I look at the picture of my mother's garden. This is the bottom of the hill where the house stands and the pond is beyond the boundary wall. There's a little lane where cows amble at a pace that can only come in solitary places---where you hear the rustle of the wind and the crackle of long-dried leaves that turn into brown crumbliness when you step on them. Then there's the gentle rush of a hill spring as it gurgles down towards the lake.But all these are beyond the wall....Being in the garden brings back so many memories. It isn't half of what it used to be and yet when I'm there, the joys of summer are rekindled. How can one forget the air laden with the scent of ripe guavas, yellow on the outside and creamy on the inside? Or the variety that was green on the outside with melony pink innards? Purple grapes hung in clusters on the vine that my mother had so lovingly nurtured. The green ones were sour but we were young. And sour was just another word that needed salt. When the summer heat intensified we would have fresh tender cucumber that hung like myriad green lanterns from the climbing plant. Pomegranates would ripen and split revealing the redness within. Even the roof of garden- shed was draped with a flourishing vine of passion fruit. But most of all, the mangoes, both sour and sweet, hold a special place in my heart. After all what's a summer afternoon without them? The green ones were made into raw chutney and relished. And the ripe ones were for longer mango-eating sessions with a whole lot of laughter and conversation. Ah, nostalgia....!