Summer in Bathinda did not arrive gently.
It hit walls, roads, tempers, scooters, and metal gates with the same blunt confidence.
Afternoons felt too bright to trust, but the city kept moving anyway.
Coolers worked overtime, shade became currency, and every drink tasted like minor rescue.
People still had errands, gossip still had to travel, and somebody always insisted it used to be worse in their childhood.
That is Bathinda too: dry humor, real endurance, and zero patience for dramatic complaining.
The heat shaped us, but so did the way everybody kept functioning inside it.
If one Bathinda summer memory still rises like heat off the road, tell it here.