Pomegranates
My mother nostalgically remembers,
That day when my father got me,
Who was probably a year old at that time,
A bunch of pomegranates,
Because I liked them?
When he came to visit me,
At my nani's place,
After I had my first big fall,
And got my right hand in a splint for precautionary measures.
I don't even have the memory of this incident,
And my mother continues to reveal that,
She started crying too,
And I find that quite endearing,
Because I somehow fell and it was somewhat serious,
And nothing like this had happened before,
And being a mother for the first time,
Her tearing up is sweet.
Back to the pomegranates,
An exotic fruit of sorts,
Being sold at ₹50 a piece back in the late 1990s,
The rich, red, glorious fruit,
Could I, a year old or so,
Be able to eat it?
Isn't that fruit a choking hazard even as adults?
What's a year old baby going to do with them?
But, damn, father must really love me,
To bring me that and to listen my nani scold him,
"Why did you have to bring such an expensive fruit?"
My mother says,
Absolutely nothing like how my naniji would have said,
But, still,
Isn't that quite endearing of both of them?
It is why I love pomegranates?
Or is it why I am willing to remove every fruity piece with my hands for everyone,
As it gives me so much peace?
Because I was shown kindness and love,
And provided with privileges I didn't even realise then,
Or just because I am me and I would go above and beyond for anyone I love,
Like my parents once did for me.
This is my new favourite reason to love pomegranates.
Also, anyone can peel oranges for you,
But not anyone can deseed a pomegranate for you.
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