Gardens of the Past: Two poems by Bharti Bansal
Photo: Bharti Bansal
‘I believe grandmothers can see through us / As haunting as it sounds, I find relief in the knowledge / That someone will always know this little part of me’
Mango Tree
There was a mango tree
Standing like a guard in my old village home
And every time we visited there
It would be full of green unripe mangoes
Which maa would later use to make chutney.
Its branches touched the terrace
And every time I looked at it
It felt as if I could travel through time
It was here that my grandmother entered the home as a new bride
Her first experience of motherhood, that mango tree captured my father’s childhood stories
In the rings of its trunk
And its green leaves fluttered with the wind
Like prayer flags dancing on the poles
I believe this was when I felt the closest to god
As time passed by, the mango tree aged like we did
Watching like the oldest member of the family, his children playing,
Standing with a walking stick in his hand, smiling
There are many ways for memories to become tangible
But almost none for them to stay without fading along the edges
I think of all those times
When dadu brought bottles of Fanta for us,
Ate his food in that brass plate, asking for time every hour, the tapping sound of his old stick,
A reminder that time flew like a bird on seeing a cat ready to pounce
When dadu died, the mango tree was cut
The only house which he built with his wrinkled hands had mixed with dust
When newer times replace older ones, do we call it development or loss?
Now an empty silent cement building welcomes us every time we visit our village
There are no more bottles of Fanta,
The brass plates, which he loved, were stolen
What remain are the memories
And a regret
Of not loving him
Of not knowing that one day he would stop asking for time
One day he would stop asking us to stay
Or that trip to Kullu Manali which never happened
The mango tree and the home where a ceiling fan was a luxury
Now are as thin as air
And every time I try to grab them
They pass right through my hands
I wonder when memories become ghosts
Do they haunt us
Or simply try to communicate what was left unsaid?
Because I see them
I feel them
And keep them saved in my dadi’s old green trunk
Which now rests in corner of our new home
Watching ever so silently, the life passing by it
Our smiles have now become poltergeists
And our home, a séance
*
Aam Ras
There are days when I remember taste of certain things
Just like I remember my best friend breaking off with me
With a tinge of hurt
And lot of regret,
I still believe memories are inflammable
Or perhaps can be sautéed in a frying pan while you search for that box of salt
On the little shelf in the kitchen
Where you keep utensils and masala in jars together
Which you once bought from a market fair for 110 rupees
But then some days I visit my nani
Realising what is missing from my life.
I have inherited certain things from her
Like this unending love for mangoes and aam ras
Which she delicately calls “muani” in her regional dialect
She has her own garden
Where she has grown sugarcane and chillies and tomatoes.
She asks me to bring four chillies;
I try to look like I know how the plant looks like
(perhaps a gap in time)
Somehow she has always figured out what I try to hide.
I believe grandmothers can see through us
As haunting as it sounds, I find relief in the knowledge
That someone will always know this little part of me
That still can’t differentiate between the guava plant and the apple tree
I go out on a hunt for the chillies
Some places don’t exist in Google maps
This little village of Namhol still shies away from being seen
(Don’t we want this, to be able to locate what makes us and point
Exactly to the fields where we first saw banana leaves and mango trees?)
I pluck four chillies and some coriander leaves
Ready to show off my searching skills
As she peels off unripe mangoes which her brothers send for her
Her hands move graciously, holding a knife as if it can never hurt her
(Things become fragile when handled with softness,
Just like she once held me in her arms as I slept without my mother,
Asking her to sing at least a hundred songs for me).
The peels falling on the ground, layer by layer, submitting to this act of undressing
Just how lovers touch each other for the first time
I keep looking at her, the fine lines around her eyes, trailing across her face
As time flows like a river, leaving its souvenirs on her
She has aged beautifully
Her hands, the memoirs of bringing up her children, I have known strength
as this longing in her eyes for nanu who died too early
She now puts the mangoes in water and let them boil
While I fiddle around with my phone not knowing what to say
The silence lingers on my lips as I see her and my aunts talking, conversing, laughing
I wonder how feeble these minutes are
There are days when her home lights up like a country seen from space
I like this noise; it helps me forget
That I, on most days, wish to die
I keep smiling throughout. Sometimes I add to the laughter, sometimes I just observe
She now puts the salt she has made herself from dried garlic, and masala and chillies
As she keeps stirring it with focused, but distant eyes
When did my grandmother age so much?
Ever since childhood, I have seen her as this ceaseless, infinite person whom I always believed
Will stay forever
But now as time progresses, I see my own self flimsy,
And her, aging without stop
Can time halt for a while?
The muani has gained a golden tinge now, and its aroma fills the hallways
She calls me, and I wait endlessly for her to pour it in my plate
This flaming hot mixture made from mangoes, their lustre,
My nani’s laughter over the stories
Are all floating in my plate as I take a bite of chapati,
Dipping it in, and letting it absorb everything
(If only we could carry the taste of our favourite dishes forever)
She asks me how it is
But what can I say about this meditation of mangoes, the flavors bursting in my mouth?
Like an eve before Diwali, her beautiful smile floating, lingering as if writing itself
Into a monograph for children who will never see her as closely as we have
I am trying to hold on to it as long as I can
But when silence answers for me,
I smile to hide this budding sorrow which comes with every end
Everyone is now dispersing like freckles
But I stay behind, waiting for my grandmother to switch off the lights of the kitchen
This is the closest I have been to the idea of god
Through my grandmother, I see a world without this dichotomy of colours
And when I wake up tomorrow, I know she will be here, just like it has always been.
***
Bharti Bansal is a 24-year-old student from India currently pursuing Data Science. She lives in a small village called Hatkoti. You can find her on Instagram: @bharti_b42.
