May Letter

to a friend

Dear Friend,

Summer has quietly become my favorite season.

I don’t know if I never realized it before, or if I simply pretended not to. There is something about these months that slows life down just enough for you to notice it. The warm midday breeze, cool nights, afternoon siestas, morning showers that feel almost meditative, endless mangoes and ice creams — these are the things I find myself romanticizing.

Many of my most memorable school vacations happened in May. I spent them at the farm, running around orchards and fields with little sense of time. Returning to the farm after years abroad, now in my thirties, has allowed me to relive some of those feelings.

I finally finished reading Call Me by Your Name and rewatched the film. This time, I could truly feel it. Ever since, I find myself thinking about peach orchards, swimming pools, and bicycle rides with your favorite person on a summer afternoon.

I may not have Italy, but I do have the tall Ashoka trees forming a canopy at the entrance of our farmhouse, the backwaters of the Godavari River within walking distance behind the house, and rows of mosambi orchards stretching into the horizon. It feels like enough of a setting to romanticize life.

There is a passage from the book that stayed with me:

“We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything—what a waste.”

I think life would be only half-lived if we didn’t romanticize it a little. If we didn’t allow ourselves to feel things completely.

May also brought a small heartbreak.

One Saturday afternoon, I drove to the farm and found one of the three indie stray dogs my uncle had adopted from the city lying unconscious but still breathing. Chikoo looked as though he was having seizures. I picked him up and laid him on a bed, covering him with a wet towel to give him some respite from the summer heat. He had been sick for a few days now, maybe some internal disease. The vet came and tried everything he could, but by evening it was clear that Chikoo was leaving us. I stayed with him until his final breath. He lay there peacefully, as though he had been gathered into the arms of angels.

I’ve always found comfort in the company of furry friends. I’ve cried with them, spoken to them, and shared things I wouldn’t tell anyone else. Losing Chikoo was a first for me. I grieved deeply that night.

Thankfully, I had unknowingly formed a friendship with his mother in the city. She lives near my house and happily chases me whenever I stop by the petrol pump in the mornings. I named her Pari. Sometimes I like to think she knows her children are loved and cared for at the farm.

Life at the petrol pump has been busy too.

May was unlike anything we’ve seen before. World events triggered panic buying, and some days we were ordering fuel tankers almost daily. Ten thousand liters of diesel would disappear in a matter of hours. We gathered every helping hand we could find to manage the traffic. My father, uncle, sister, and I all became part of the team. Looking back, it feels exhausting and funny at the same time.

In between all of this, I decided to call my business Citrus Bar.

My mosambi and orange cakes have now traveled as far as Mumbai—not through formal orders, but through friendships and generous introductions. Perhaps one day those same friends will become believers and investors in the dream.

The idea is simple: eggless yogurt-based citrus cakes that are moist, travel-friendly, and melt in your mouth. Alongside them, a petite coffee bar serving citrus-inspired espresso drinks. One drink I particularly love is Orange Bianco—a Korean-style combination of orange syrup, espresso, and creamy milk. I imagine creating a mosambi version of it.

A citrus soft-serve is another idea that excites me. Fresh seasonal juices too. A farm-to-bar concept rooted in the orchards I grew up around.

May also brought me back to running. Back to chasing sunrises and sunsets. Back to finding a spark I thought I had misplaced somewhere along the way. And perhaps, to sharing some of that time with a new friend in the city.

And now it is June. May gave me memories, grief, hope, and a renewed sense of purpose. So here’s to believing that May showers really do bring June flowers.

Later,

Tarak