Peaches and cream

I came upon a basket of peaches recently. They were hand-delivered to my doorstep by my sweet neighbour. The gesture was so sudden and unexpected that it took me a moment to recover from the surprise. And then I was suffused with complete and utter delight. 

The container was overloaded with the luscious fruit. I picked one up to peer at it closely. The colour of the swollen cheeks ranged from pale yellow to a dark flushed red. I inhaled the heady fragrance, and was instantly transported to my grandfather’s garden. A floodgate of memories came rushing at me. 

My mother’s dad, whom we called Nana in our Indian language, was a very strict man. Incidentally in Arabic, Nana is the term used for mint, the green leafy and aromatic herb. For a long time I had trouble asking for mint-tea locally because I had to say “Nana chai” and the phrase would somehow get stuck in my throat. His angry visage would swim in front of my eyes and I would quickly switch my order to a harmless cup of coffee. 

My grandpa was a perfectionist and retired from active employment at the age of fifty-eight. My grandmother said that was the prime of his youth, and he did not know what to do with his excessive store of physical energy. He started to apply himself to domestic matters with an equal dedication that he had employed in his professional life. So suddenly, everything that ran smoothly beneath the benign and lenient gaze of my grandma became a stringent and regimented exercise under his command. 

He began supervising everything, from following the cleaner to oversee every nook and cranny of a room was mopped up, instructing the launderer to focus on the upturned shirt collars, checking each piece of fruit and vegetable that was passed into the kitchen and making sure the cuts of meat were of superior variety. 

To us, the hoards of children who were bundled unceremoniously by our zealous mother and taken to our grandparents’ house for the long summer vacation, this took the form of an annual nightmare. There were more rules in my grandfather’s house than in my convent school. 

And then he started working on his orchard. With wily precision he enticed all of us kids to help him in this venture. We had jobs in rotation: to water the garden, time the sprinklers, prune the buds or pick the fruit. To garner more excitement he introduced a small tip for the most enthusiastic fruit picker. 

Peach season was the best. The trees would bend under the weight of the excessive fruit. The scented peaches that smelled of sweet nectar would dazzle our senses. While eating it the juice would trickle and give us sticky hands and cheeks. The glorious summer evenings would resonate with peals of childish laughter as we lolled about on the grass. 

In a blind fit of nostalgia I picked up the phone and called my husband. 

“I grow old, I grow old. I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled,” I quoted. 

“Hello,” said my spouse.

“Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?” I continued. 

“Hello?” he repeated.

“I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach,” I recited.

“Who is this?” he asked.

“TS Eliot,” I supplied.

“Save some peaches and cream for me also Mr Eliot,” he laughed, slamming the phone down.