The Flavour of Memories

By Shibumi Kenneth Desai

An ordinary evening years ago led me to a spectacular discovery. Dinner was coming to an end, but the box of memories was just about opening. My father smiled at seven year old me, messily relishing a Payri mango. As the sweet juice dribbled down my chin, a sweeter story was recounted by Papa.

He told me about how his siblings and he spent most of their school holidays in my great-grandfather’s old home in Valsad. My great-grandfather was an ex-policeman and lived all his life by a strict rulebook. Everyone around him complied. This included his own children, grown adults by then and all his grandchildren, including Papa.

“We all had to sleep early, be up early, eat whatever was given to us, not eat any more mithai than one piece after each meal per child.” Papa told me. I stared back, horrified at the thought of being up early during the holidays.

Sensing this, Papa chuckled and cut to something funnier.

“But I have always been fond of sweets and one piece of mithai after a meal just wasn’t enough!” he said. Then with a wink he whispered to me, “Actually, it still isn’t!”

I laughed, but eager to hear more I urged him to continue.

“One day after lunch I tried to sneak another piece of mithai, thinking that I wouldn’t get caught. But I should have known that your great-grandfather was a policeman and I was no match for him. He caught me before I’d even taken the piece out of the box!”

My eyes widened as I asked, “Then what did you do Papa?”

“I sulked, but I was now stubbornly determined to bend the rules somehow!” he said with a mischievous grin.

At this point my mother came in and asked us to wash up before Papa continued. We did so at the speed of lightening.

Papa continued the story, “I walked out of the house and wandered around the garden for a bit. The beautiful, leafy garden was one of my favourite places in the world. I have to admit it was your great-grandfather and his discipline that kept it that way. No plant or tree could be trimmed or even planted unless he allowed it. Then after a while I peeped into his room from outside. I knew that on Sundays, your great-grandfather took a leisurely afternoon siesta.”

I will never forget the look of excitement on Papa’s face at that point. It was as if he was a child again.

“I went into the house and dashed towards the kitchen and fast as I could on tiptoe. The first thing I saw were the ripe, golden Payris that had been kept to soak in the kitchen. They’d been specially sent by the neighbours and it was decided they had to be used for the aam-ras (mango juice) that your great-grandmother made. I grabbed one and ran out as if I were a thief stealing actual gold.”

“Did anyone catch you this time?” I asked innocently.

“No, not this time,” Papa grinned, “I took my ‘looted’ Payri mango and hid behind a tree. I sucked on it and enjoyed every bit. I was careful to not waste any of the precious juice. I savoured every bit of its orange-yellow goodness slowly. Just then, a noise from the house behind snapped me out of my dreamlike joy. Thankfully, I’d finished the Payri by then. If I took in the seed that was left to throw it, I’d get caught. I thought quickly and dug up a little hole, put the seed in and covered it with some earth.”

By now I was engrossed. The family home had been sold before I was born and having grown up in Mumbai, the joy of afternoons spent in a garden of one’s own were unknown to me.

More nonchalantly now Papa went on, “We came back home, returned to school and life went on as usual until one day a letter came from your great-grandfather. He had written to say that a mango tree had begun to grow in his garden. He didn’t know how, because he hadn’t planted it but chose to see it as Mother Nature’s blessing. I smiled to myself.”

“Did you tell anyone Papa?” I asked.

“I didn’t. Sometimes it’s fun to have a little secret of your own.” he replied.

Papa stared into the distance with a peaceful smile as if he was looking at the garden again.

In the years to come I went through old albums with photos taken at the Valsad house countless times. In a time when we struggle to keep two houseplants alive, the well-maintained garden over the years brought my admiration. From the black and white photos to the sepia toned ones the garden looked exactly the same. There was just one sepia picture which was different, the one with the mango tree. My father had saved the letter about it being discovered and placed it near the photo.

I will always treasure these albums of a time gone by. When memories are shared, they turn into heirlooms. They connect you to a past you have never experienced. They help you connect with people more intimately than the fact of a blood connection can. They show you that memories can have their own flavour. Most people think I’ve just inherited an old album. I don’t try to convince them that it’s actually my spectacular discovery- the gift of time travel. Sometimes it’s fun to have a little secret of your own.

By Shibumi Kenneth Desai