Grandfather's night jasmine

 The nostalgic summer air filled me with the realization that soon I will be running in lush green paddy fields. Summer and I have a toxic relationship. We tastefully detest each other but nothing can detach us from one other. The next thing I loved about summer was the extended summer vacation it brought along. It was a fresh breather for my perpetually tired mother who was weary of my relentless frenzy.

As always she took me to her parent's place for the vacation.  My mother was unemployed but I meticulously decorated the word ‘housewife’ when I had to explain her occupation. Although she was unemployed she worked ceaselessly from 5 in the morning to 11 at night. Her unemployment was portrayed as a disgrace or even a crime if you may. It was the way they crinkled their nose up at the word ‘housewife’ for me.

The first thing she did when we arrived was, to fry some eggs and beaten rice, eat it and take a good two-hour nap. I ate everything she gave and sat beside her sleeping body. I always wondered what was so interesting about sleep, that the adults looked at it like those big swirly lollipops which you got only on your birthday. I would poke her at times or put my mouth on her hand and blow into it making weird farting noises. She would reach the saturation of her patience and rebuked me in a groggy but really scary voice. I had no choice but to watch our little garden from windows left ajar to beat the summer heat.

My garden had a multitude of tropical fruit trees. It had a mango tree, a litchi tree, 3 papaya trees, a grapefruit tree, a banana tree, 3 guava trees but a night jasmine tree which was the tallest but bore no fruits. I thought the tree was a waste of space and its flower had a pungent smell that could burn your nostril hair off. 

I expressed my opinion on this tree to my grandfather, once. He got furious because I said ‘I hate the smell of its flowers. He would have muted me that instant if it was possible. Right then and there I realized even thinking bad of this tree was taboo and if you ever express your opinion on the smell of its flowers, you get ready to get disowned.

The tree itself was not that hideous. The reason for my scorn towards this tree must probably be my emotions. The emotion of anger and hurt I received after expressing my opinion on this tree. I did not want to admit I was in the wrong and just wanted to shift the blame to this tree. Now I abhorred it. To me, it had distorted leaves, an ugly pale grey trunk and pungent-smelling flowers. If looks could kill, I would have burned it down to cinders.

There was always something or the other always happening to this tree. This one day it got infested with caterpillars. The worms were huge, almost the size of my grandfather’s index finger and had the same colour as the bark of the tree. 

I had gone to the garden with my grandmother to collect night jasmine that had fallen overnight. Apparently, it is a sin to pluck its flowers from the plant directly. My grandmother leaned too close on to the plant and a big caterpillar latched on to her cloth. 

She was not allergic to caterpillar fuzz. So she nonchalantly took the caterpillar off with her bare hands and threw it over the wall. On closer inspection, the bark was not just bark but hundreds of caterpillars attached to it.

My grandfather was devastated to see his tree suffering. He bought some Malathion powder and sprayed it all over the worms. Some fell off while some still stayed clinging to the bark. My grandmother took a hook and scraped the caterpillars off the trunk. There were hundreds of them. 

He then burned all the caterpillars. Despite my hate for the tree, I was relieved that all the bugs were gone. The worms had inflicted serious damage on the tree. Many parts of the trunk got eaten. My grandfather applied something to the trunk and covered the hollowed parts with jute bags. 

I won’t lie here; I was worried for the plant. That summer I woke up every morning took a stick then removed the jute bag just enough to peek inside but not enough that it fell off just to see if it was healing.

Every other summer my distaste for the tree shimmered down. Maybe it was the harmoniously mingled white and orange of night jasmine that adorned the tree or maybe the memory of the time I got rebuked started to fade away. Maybe it was the sweet smell of night jasmines that clung heavily in the summer air when the new kid with dimples showed up in our neighbourhood. 

If love, at first sight, was a thing then that must be it. His eyes sparkled like thousand diamonds bestowed upon them. Now every morning I woke up looking forward to our little rendezvous at an empty cornfield every evening. 

To not raise any suspicions, we met only when we were with our friends. We inconspicuously met each other’s eyes while the others played. I relished this little encounter every night and the next day until we saw each other again. 

My impatience gobbled up my sleep. The girl that slept till 10 now stayed awake in anticipation of that first-morning ray. The night jasmines did no justice. It fell on me elegantly leaving a tickle here and a giggle there. The resplendent flower bed of pure white and sweet orange night jasmine elevated my euphoria. I took a lungful of its saccharine smell. She was rejoicing my love.

My grandfather passed away. I was as numb as you are. The day started with the same old tone. He was collecting the night jasmines to offer his god while I dreamily watched the tree. He suddenly collapsed as I watched. I screamed but could not make a sound. There was something in my throat which restricted my voice. I trembled. The mid-July air suddenly became biting cold. I banged all the doors and started wailing, unable to form any coherent sentence. I dashed out to the garden. He was there forever sleeping on the bed of white night jasmines. 

Then my grandmother left the house and stayed with my uncle. They rented the house to some office. The last time I went there, the tree was gone. There stood a parking lot. The ground was plastered in shiny black pitch and I could not figure out the spot my grandfather collapsed in. The imprint of his body on the white flower bed was long gone.