Summers are here… and so are mangoes. While I would have enjoyed them more had this wretched situation been otherwise, this nonetheless is no reason to not enjoy this beautiful fruit.
Every second day, my mother-in-law gets some juicy and succulent mangoes because she knows my daughters are crazy about them. And my parents keep sighing over FaceTime calls, telling me time and again how much they are missing my kids and how all the chocolates and other delicacies are kept untouched in their refrigerator because their granddaughters are not able to visit them and enjoy the stuff they feasted on.
When I see at my kids with their grandparents (paternal and maternal), I can’t help but let a warm, fuzzy feeling fill my insides.
I think the bond between these two generations is truly unique. My husband and I often get into tiffs with our parents for supporting and choosing our children over us. And almost always, their response is the same.
‘It is your job to discipline them… our job is to love them. And as long as we are not pampering them silly, or supporting them when they are wrong… you should not bother with how we behave with them.’
More often than not, this answer leaves us frustrated and sulking; however, in the heart of our heart… we feel blessed that they love our children so much.
All I can do is give an eye roll and move on because I realise that I was no less loved by my grand parents.
My paternal grandfather passed away when I was a little over 3. So I don’t have too many memories of him, but whatever few ones I have are quite pleasant. My grandmother was not overly expressive but I wouldn’t call her non-affectionate either. So by default, my share of grandparental love came from my maternal side.
While there are countless examples that showcased how much our grandparents loved us (9 grandkids for them), one particular incident has stayed with me and I am instantly reminded of it every year when I taste my first mango of the season.
It was Circa 2002, when my cousin (masi’s daughter) and I went from Delhi to Mumbai for our internship in Social Work, in the months of May-June. We were studying in the same class and this one-month internship was a part of the curriculum.
We were three girls (the two of us and a friend) who shared an apartment at the posh Kemp’s Corner, but the luxury ended there. We were, at the end of the day, students; and had landed in Mumbai with limited funds. Needless to mention, this internship was not paying us anything.
On our first day in the City of Dreams, we pooled-in some of our money and kept it aside for groceries and other such stuff. But groceries meant basic stuff- veggies, lentils, rice, flour, etc. We almost never splurged.
Then one Sunday afternoon (our first weekend in Mumbai), we were chilling when all of a sudden, the bell rang and I opened the door to find a young runner boy waiting for me to let him in. In his hands were two big boxes of mangoes.
I looked at him in confusion, almost confident that he had the wrong house. He looked at me and told me that the mangoes were for me and my cousin. Perhaps the expression on my face must’ve been something that he had been expecting because he immediately gave me the name of the sender. Still unable to recall the generous soul who was kind enough to send mangoes to three bhookhi becharis, I shook my head in negation. He then took a deep breath and said, “Aapke Nana ne bheje hain. Kolkata se phone aaya tha.”
By this time, my cousin and our friend had also joined me at the door. And my cousin suddenly recalled that the sender was a relative of ours.
Apparently our Nana, whom we lovingly addressed as Pitaji, couldn’t stand the fact that his darling granddaughters were spending their summer slogging it out… and that too without mangoes!! It was nothing less than blasphemous, in his opinion! So he went ahead and requested our relative to make sure we were never out of fruits… especially mangoes.
That was a first; and after that day, we were used to receiving constant supplies of different fruits. We could run out of groceries, not fruits.
It seems like a small gesture but it speaks volumes about the depth of his love for us… his grandchildren. He passed away in 2006 but we still remember him and his love vividly, and with just as much fondness.
And now that I see my girls with their grandparents, I realise that the fruit might change from mango to strawberry… or even to a chocolate… but the love is intact, and just as pure.
AsYouLifeIt 