At the bazaar, I saw a grandfather dangling a guava over the head of a fascinated 3 year old, who was trying to catch the fruit with his tiny hands. And before I could stop or breathe, memories of a summer long gone crashed into me.
Nana and his guavas.
Just across the roof at my Maternal Grandfather's rambling house, were four guava trees. Me and my elder sisters would be around them like wild weeds on our visits. I loved Guavas. Or maybe now I love them because of the seeds of memories.
And on one such trips, the guava trees didn't bear any fruit. Because we were coming and would race straight to the trees, my Nana and Nani bought baskets of guavas and tied them with threads to the branches. I don't know if they really thought they might just be able to fool me - a 4 year old, but surely not my elder sisters. Nevertheless, every branch had guavas dangling from them.
"Nana, look this one is pink, this is one is white."
"Karishma!" He said. A miracle.
If I really think hard I can still almost feel a gnarled finger flicking my nose.
*****
My Nana had a tall table of thick wood in the first floor of the house. I have vague memories of being airless for a minute before I'd be perched up on the table beside his work. I would just dangle my legs and watch him. I used to think, this is my Mamma's Papa. He sure looks like it from the eyes.
I remember him taking me to the fruit market. I remember it with my senses. The colors filling my eyes. The touch. His huge rough hand gobbling mine. And the fragrances. Tangy grapes. Musk melons. Guavas. Heady sweet guava smells. I used to crane my neck to see him. Either he was tall or I was tiny. Or both. But by holding my hand, he used to make me feel as if I was nestled on his open fist.
*****
He died before we could get to the stories and I could grasp more of this man's mind and soul.
My Mother has splashed colors in the images sketched by the stories she has told me of him.
He asked my Mother to shed the purdah after she bumped into a bull! He woke her up in the middle of the night to go and watch the monumental moment as the statue of Mahatma Gandhi was raised on to its stand in the town library's garden. He made fun of Ma to calm her down when she told him she heard the voice of a "bhishti" calling her. (That was a ghost. And another long story.) He got my Mother's clothes designed and fabrics imported from various parts of the country. He was very fond of his radio. He was in love with this country. And horses. He counted his kids before sleeping. Teased and adored his daughters. Was strict to his sons. He could handle anything that came his way. Riots. Death of a child. But one day his heart just failed his will to live.
*****
I have only heard his stories.
But I remember the guavas.
Like the way I remember a few dangling threads without guavas the summer he died.
I hugged the trees.
******
I love guavas.
Nana and his guavas.
Just across the roof at my Maternal Grandfather's rambling house, were four guava trees. Me and my elder sisters would be around them like wild weeds on our visits. I loved Guavas. Or maybe now I love them because of the seeds of memories.
And on one such trips, the guava trees didn't bear any fruit. Because we were coming and would race straight to the trees, my Nana and Nani bought baskets of guavas and tied them with threads to the branches. I don't know if they really thought they might just be able to fool me - a 4 year old, but surely not my elder sisters. Nevertheless, every branch had guavas dangling from them.
"Nana, look this one is pink, this is one is white."
"Karishma!" He said. A miracle.
If I really think hard I can still almost feel a gnarled finger flicking my nose.
*****
My Nana had a tall table of thick wood in the first floor of the house. I have vague memories of being airless for a minute before I'd be perched up on the table beside his work. I would just dangle my legs and watch him. I used to think, this is my Mamma's Papa. He sure looks like it from the eyes.
I remember him taking me to the fruit market. I remember it with my senses. The colors filling my eyes. The touch. His huge rough hand gobbling mine. And the fragrances. Tangy grapes. Musk melons. Guavas. Heady sweet guava smells. I used to crane my neck to see him. Either he was tall or I was tiny. Or both. But by holding my hand, he used to make me feel as if I was nestled on his open fist.
*****
He died before we could get to the stories and I could grasp more of this man's mind and soul.
My Mother has splashed colors in the images sketched by the stories she has told me of him.
He asked my Mother to shed the purdah after she bumped into a bull! He woke her up in the middle of the night to go and watch the monumental moment as the statue of Mahatma Gandhi was raised on to its stand in the town library's garden. He made fun of Ma to calm her down when she told him she heard the voice of a "bhishti" calling her. (That was a ghost. And another long story.) He got my Mother's clothes designed and fabrics imported from various parts of the country. He was very fond of his radio. He was in love with this country. And horses. He counted his kids before sleeping. Teased and adored his daughters. Was strict to his sons. He could handle anything that came his way. Riots. Death of a child. But one day his heart just failed his will to live.
*****
I have only heard his stories.
But I remember the guavas.
Like the way I remember a few dangling threads without guavas the summer he died.
I hugged the trees.
******
I love guavas.
