How to Care in the Heat: A summer holiday story in three-and-a-half voices

Mid-May.

That time of year when the clock starts to feel like it’s mocking you. Nothing quite moves, yet everything seems to need you.

Lunch, snacks, more snacks. Sunscreen, water bottle, “no more screens” (said half-heartedly, then repeated again anyway).

Care looks different in the summer. Not because people suddenly need more. But because time needs more managing than the people do.

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Take Asha.

She’s a mother of two — one toddler, one 9-year-old with Very Big Questions and no school to ask them in.

Her days are held together by listless attempts at structure: puzzle time, fruit time, nap time, “quiet time” (a lie, every time).

“The baby’s cranky by 10am. The older one by noon. I just keep moving the cushions around, like it will change something,”

she says, laughing without quite smiling.

The house is littered with markers, wet wipes, dinosaur tails. She moves through it like she’s circling a drain, trying to keep things from spiralling, while secretly counting down to bedtime.

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Meanwhile, Kavita is cleaning a third-floor flat across town.

Her own kids, 6 and 11, are somewhere between the neighbour’s steps and her sister’s village house, depending on the day.

“Summer means figuring out where they are safe while I work,” she says simply.

There’s no rose tinted glasses version to it. Just a split-second mental map, who’s home, who’s sick, who’s had a fight. Then you drop off the tiffin and go. And pray there’s no heatstroke. No phone call.

In the houses she works in, she wipes down cool marble floors of families of kids she cares for. Often ones who complain of boredom in air-conditioned rooms. She doesn’t fault them. She just tucks away the rest of her own worry till she clocks out.

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In the same city, Sameer sits with his daughter under a creaky fan and tries not to lose his temper over a 14-piece jigsaw.

He’s on “work-from-home” duty while his partner travels. He hasn’t had a full thought in four days.

“I used to think care was about presence,” he mutters. “Now I think it’s about non-reactivity.”

He’s learning that love is sometimes a slow exhale. Not yelling when the ice cream spills. Not panicking when the toddler says “I’m bored” as if it’s a medical condition. And not trying to make every day “meaningful.”

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What no one tells you about summer holidays is how long the hours are. Not dramatic. Not difficult in the ways that get written about. Just endless.

You’re not saving anyone. You’re just… circling them gently. Making sure they stay hydrated. Slightly entertained. That no one gets burnt, not from the sun, not from frustration.

In middle-class homes, there are summer camps, cousins, mangoes, guilt.  In others, there’s improvisation. A reused water gun. A TV left on too long. A nap taken in the corridor where it’s cooler.

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Every now and then, something sweet happens. A spontaneous puppet show. A mango, devoured in silence. A rare stillness during nap time, when even the ceiling fan hums politely. No squeaks.

These are the moments that make the other ones bearable. Not golden memories. Just little reprieves.

“I don’t think my kids will remember what I cooked,” one mother tells me. “But maybe they’ll remember that I let them sit under the sink one day because it was the coldest corner.”

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So how do you care in the heat?

Not by scheduling more. Not by forcing joy. But by noticing which parts of the day you can loosen. By knowing when to say, “fine, just one more YouTube video.” And when to say, “let’s both lie down and pretend we’re asleep.”

Care in summer isn’t urgent. But it’s persistent. And that kind of care, the slow, sweaty, showing-up kind, doesn’t get noticed right away.

Until one day, someone says:

“Remember that summer when it was so hot and we just stayed inside and played with ice?”

And you will smile, because you may have forgotten. But they hadn’t.