Space jam

The thing is that I can never buy guavas. Don’t get me wrong; I love the fruit, in all its varieties. There are several types of it: the seeded, seedless, white centred, yellow skinned, green shaded and one very rare kind that has a red core to it. I love them all. But the fact remains that I can never buy them. 

And that’s because when I was a little, guava trees surrounded our house. Not one or two, but a veritable orchard grew in our backyard that would be laden with the luscious fruit. The birds, especially the parrots would go crazy in the guava season. They feasted on them from the crack of dawn until twilight set in. There was so much to choose from that like greedy children, they would peck at one and then hop across to another one, leaving the half eaten fruit dangling precariously at an unnatural angle. 

I knew the topography of most of these trees blindfolded. Aping my older brother, I had learned to climb them at a very early stage. Rushing back from school I would dump my heavy bag and lunchbox and immediately scamper up the one on the left of the doorway. That was also the place where I disappeared to sulk after every disagreement with my hapless parents. 

Our sensible mum did not have much patience with my tantrums but our nanny, who we called “Ayyamma” and was like our surrogate mother, would continue to coax me to come down. I would petulantly ask her to clamber up but her large girth unfortunately made it impossible to do so. Our father good naturedly would move his chair beneath the tree and ask for his tea to be served there. As the aroma of the wafer thin cucumber sandwiches wafted up, I would surreptitiously reach for them while hanging on to the unsteady branches for dear life. 

When the guavas ripened, they did so in quick succession. My mom, along with all the other ladies of our neighbourhood got very busy then. Regular meals in our household were halted as jam and jelly making took precedence over everything else. Other than those two routine specialties, she also concentrated on making guava juice, squash, conserve and just about anything else she could think of. If she could have her way she would have made guava toothpaste, guava soap and guava shampoo too. Believe me, it’s true. 

When all the transparent jars were filled and lined neatly on the kitchen counter and still more guavas came in from the orchard, she would finally give-up.

These fruits were separated into two heaps and placed outside the entrance gate of our house. Any farmer, passerby or stranger was welcome to take them, as much as they wished and as often as they wanted. 

Seeing such an abundance of guavas being distributed in my childhood, I somehow thought they came for free. To pay some amount to consume them was a concept that was completely alien to me. Lost in thought, I was jolted by the sound of our daughter’s voice. 

“Look Mum, guavas,” she exclaimed. 

“Let’s get the pineapple,” I cut in. 

“It’s JD4 per kilo,” she said. 

“Exorbitant,” I nodded. 

“The pineapple is for JD6,” she read out. 

“Put it in the basket please,” I requested. 

“But it’s more expensive,” she reasoned. 

“I know,” I agreed. 

“Penny wise, pound foolish?” she asked. 

‘You can say that again,” I laughed.