This year, it will not rain. Everybody had been telling so. In the gloom of impending drought, many were simply letting go. As early as March - summer had just begun. The air was thick with flavour of mango flowers. Humid afternoons made homes impossible to stay in. Languid and sweaty, we, the children, wandered from home to home, garden to garden, played kit-kit on sleepy streets and wondered- what drought would be like.
Cousins of all kind, city cousins, village cousins, cousins once removed, nephews and nieces in relation, neighbours, school-mates - nobody left behind. We wandered in herds. And found a jujube tree, leaning over a dried pond, bustling with fruit, maroon, plump, the sour odour hanging heavy in the air for yards around. Only when one ate, one knew it could be sweet too. This was in the front-yard of one of very own - Little. Little was one of two sisters, and a reliable member of our gang, always eager to participate in our little plans. She brought along her baby sister who she guarded like a hawk.
The pond was so dry, that the bottom had cracked open in near craters. The wild weeds that grew and the water lilies, had withered and pasted against the walls long ago. Only the jujube tree, remained, verdant, oblivious of the indignant monsoon, and full of thorns, that made it impossible to climb. Else, any lithe child would climb up and shake a bough or three while the rest of us caught the falling fruit in our skirts held spread out. Alas, that wasn’t the case.
So Little went inside and got their flower plucker. An ergonomic contraption of sorts, a long bamboo stick with a V shaped claw at the very end, used as a tool against neighbours who wake up earlier than you and boost their flower harvest by stealing from other’s gardens.With that stick- the tallest amongst us, an older city cousin who had the finest pink slippers, closed his eyes and began stringing down random boughs, and shaking them.
Within minutes, our palms filled and our skirts filled and heaps were made on the barren belly of the pond. We the children, giggled endlessly because nobody had imagined a harvest of this magnitude. Whether to chew the plums and throw out seeds, they tasted the most judicious mix of sweet and sour, or to run home and get sacks to gather those berries into - we were joyfully confused.
Just then, we heard a thud. A very loud and a distinct thud. Like something heavy hit the floor. It came from the house. Little ran home while her sister rushed behind her. Turned out, their grandmother had fallen. Fainted while sitting in the verandah, out of nowhere like the life had been sucked out of her. This grandmother was fair and thin and wrapped in a tattered white sari, her hair silvery, tied into untidy braids.
There were screams and shouts and the people at home were running about, not knowing what to do. Thanks to a pacemaker, she lived many more years. But that afternoon, i had to leave my jujube heap to the jackals - that I couldn’t forget.
Inspired by : Anita Desai (Clear Light of Day)