Somebody’s Fruit

When I was in middle school, I had the most fun and passionate English Teachers who taught poetry and prose. One of those poems was this: Somebody’s Mother

Speaking of mothers, Mommy told me a lot of stories of her childhood. One of them was about the fruit trees in her father’s (Grandpa TVS) fields. She described the low hanging mangoes and how she would lie down under the shaded trees and eat them. She also described the giant grapefruits that were too sour for her to eat.

Because of her stories, although I grew up in the outskirts of the city (concrete jungle) with dwindling vegetation, I grew up with growing love for fields, villages, shaded and fruit bearing trees. I found the whole concept of lying beneath a low hanging mangoe tree very exotic.

As I grew up, over the last two decades, wherever I went, I left a trail of plants and trees. That is not to say I have a green thumb. Far from it. I am a plant killer. But, I kept trying my best. I learnt from the best and kept getting better. Given that frugual is part of my DNA, I never (over-)spent on plants. I borrowed a cutting or got a sapling from fellow plant lovers and planted fruit trees and roses. Plant lovers were more than happy to drop by and show me the ropes and in many cases, handle my SOS “Hey…..run over….plant is drying out, yellowing out, tilting over” calls. One of those friends was an elderly gentlemen named Al who helped me plant peaches, pears etc during my Fremont (CA) days. Al even helped Kumar put in a sprinler system and drip irrigation, so I didn’t have to water the plants every day during summer. During my CA days, when the fruit harvest came in during Spring and Summer, I shared the labor of love with friends and colleagues.

But, as my life course changed, I moved around, and many a times, I didn’t get to enjoy my labor of love. I didn’t get to see the plants that I set in the ground mature…and bear fruit.

Such is life…is it not?

That brings me to today’s story.

For the last few weeks, I have been plucking persimmons and distributing them. I didn’t plant the persimmon trees in the backyard. My friend Thane tells me that persimmon trees are like the Indian version of tulasi (holy basil)…considered very auspicious for a family. The Chinese family who lived in our place must have planted them in the ground with much love and nurtured them. But, before they could enjoy the labor of their love, they moved away.

Leaving me to pluck these persimmons and distribute them with much love.

These persimmons. Somebody’s fruit.

End Note:

I bet Mommy is proud that she left her legacy of love for plants with me.

Leave a legacy. Plant something.

On making a House a Home

Appa told me that for centuries a woman is the one that makes a house a home.

So, today evening, after a rather tough and busy week, as the boys and I try to get through our weekend to-do list, I felt the need to light some candles around the house to soak and relax the 3 hard working boys in aroma therapy.

Aromatherapy is a caring, hands-on therapy which seeks to induce relaxation, to increase energy, to reduce the effects of stress and to restore lost balance to mind, body and soul.
– Robert Tisserand

On a Fall Day

“You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind and the cold, wintery light. But you knew there would always be the spring, as you knew the river would flow again after it was frozen. ”
― Ernest Hemingway, A Moveable Feast
“Spring passes and one remembers one’s innocence.
Summer passes and one remembers one’s exuberance.
Autumn passes and one remembers one’s reverence.
Winter passes and one remembers one’s perseverance.”
― Yoko Ono

“There is something incredibly nostalgic and significant about the annual cascade of autumn leaves.”
― Joe L. Wheeler

 

Every Parent is a Kshatriya (Warrior)

Have you heard the story about the bee, Parashurama and Karna from Mahabaratha? One day while Parasurama was resting on the lap of Karna, a poisonous bee stung Karna. But he kept calm bearing all the pain, not to disturb his resting guru. Parasurama awakened by the warm blood oozing out of the bee sting wound, realized that only a Kshatriya not a Brahmana can have such pain tolerance.

Both Adi and I have been sleep deprived for many days last week. So, earlier this week, as his tiredness overtook him, we just found a quite corner in a busy building and he rested on my lap for half hour to catch a cat nap.

I didn’t move even a inch despite my leg going numb. If there was just a peep of sound anywhere close by, I swear, I would have silenced the source with the power of my mind to get him that much needed rest.