India, May 4 -- The start of this Summer seems as though a looming, leaden Cumulonimbus has swallowed half of the ripening sun. Summer's bright palettes appear to be muted and mellowed bystarkshadows. The season of the sizzling sun heralds its own palettes. Political colours to botanical colours, street palettes to sporting hues. On the political canvas, from Pahalgam to the Pope's passing, Summer signalled a stark start. Black and grey look to be the palettes heralding the month of May. Take the Pope's funeral. In a world grappling with wars and terror, black, but naturally, mirrored the mood of the moment. Literally and figuratively. Most heads of states stuck to customary black mourning couture. Trust Trump to stick out like a sore thumb there too and turn up instead in bizarre blue. The quintessential odd man out. The one place where blue was but befitting was on IPL sensation Vaibhav Suryavanshi's shoulders. The curious case of "When in Rome, Do Not Do As the Romans Do". Closer home, the start of summer is seeing a splash of orange. From the King's Day festivities at the Dutch embassy to the burst of orange on the streets. Mangoes making this season's debut on middle-class India's humble stage -- the thhele-wallahs and pheri-wallahs. The groggy Gulmohars fluttering open their eyelids from winter's sleep to kiss Summer with scarlet lips. The sea of orangy yellowness on the streets --- mangoes landing and lording it --- brings back memories of another day, another time. Childhood was a time when mangoes came not as a trickle, but as a pouring called petis. Childhood was a time when the King of Fruits was not so dear that only a handful made it into Big Basket or Blinkit's brown bag. Childhood was a bumpy bylane where half the fun and frolic lay in felling or stealing ambis from neighbours' trees, with weaponry made of pellets to pebbles. Childhood was a sprawling vehra where mangoes meant community bonding, over the peeling, pruning and pickling of ambis and aams. A community bonding as sweet as mango murabbas, as healthy as aam pannas. Childhood was a bountiful bageecha where the coming of a summer storm spelt holiday homework. "Oh dear, all those luscious mangoes meeting an untimely death!" the matriarchs would roar a requiem louder than the storm upon surveying the 'king's' casualties. "Get to work, bachchas, time for the holiday projects." This meant grovelling in groves for storm's shaheeds, to grant them a new lease of life in chutneys and curries. For those who miss that sensory experience, that ritualism of revelry inherent in the unboxing of mango petis, the digital age promises newer narratives. Mango petis at the doorstep, thanks to many an App. The other day, an ad kept popping up on YouTube, like niggling neon screens at an IPL stadium. "Get mangoes direct from farms, straight from farmers, minus middlemen," the marketeer bloke bleated. All that needs to be done, the commercial chortled, is to download the App. The curious case of Digital India bridging the gap. Orange ruled elsewhere, too. Alas, this had to do not with things mouth-lickin, but with a licking that spelt loss. Leaping, licking flames of fury consumed the culture-scape that is Dilli Haat. Brocades and Bhagalpuris of artisans from Farrukhabad to Bengal, precious pashminas to papier mache of Kashmiri craftsmen who had rebuilt lives and livelihoods after the exodus of the 1990s from the Valley, all turned to ghastly grey ashes in this sea of furious and fuming orange. What a sad commentary that fire extinguishers were scarcely in working condition and exit points stood clogged or closed. Summer's angry ochres to raging reds --- The united colours of loss, lament and livelihoods gutted 'n' gone. The furious case of there's no smoke without fire....