My childhood memories come to me in fragments, like individual framed pictures of specific moments that exist separately from one another. One such memory is when I dared my brother to a foot race down the steps of the rocky hill next to my grandfather's house. Despite our mother's warning to never run down the hill for fear of injury, we disregarded her caution. Waiting for her to leave for work, we carried on with our plans. After all, what else was there to do in the scorching summer heat but run, hide, play, and bask in the sunlight? Another memory that stands out is when I climbed the mango tree in my grandfather's backyard and found myself unable to come down.
As I nibbled on mangoes, I anxiously hoped that the house girl would discover me before my grandfather returned home. The shade of that tree, accompanied by a refreshing breeze, made the sun much more tolerable. It became my favorite spot, with its abundant, succulent mangoes, sprawling branches that reached in every direction, and a canopy that cast shade over almost the entire courtyard.
My grandfather was a tall, slender man, his head adorned with a gray felt hat that concealed a balding spot on top. That hat seemed to have witnessed as many triumphs and tribulations as he had, and he despised it when we climbed his mango tree. He would grumble about how we would shake the fruits loose, causing them to burst and spoil upon hitting the ground. Despite his few words, his deep voice commanded attention, compelling anyone within earshot to pause and listen.
Now, as I observe my daughter frolicking in the grass beneath the towering oak tree in our yard, I ponder how much of this day she will retain in her memories. I speculate if this moment of swinging in the shade, twirling amidst the dancing particles of sunlight, and inspecting blades of grass for ladybugs will be etched into the archives of her recollections. I wonder if I will be a part of this memory, or if I will fade into the hazy details of the day. On the day I became trapped in my grandfather's mango tree, nothing of particular significance occurred to me or at least, none that I recall. It was not my first encounter with being stuck in a tree. Climbing was never the issue; it was always the descent that filled me with trepidation. Yet, that particular moment remains vivid in my mind the succulent sweetness of the mango, the stickiness coating my fingers, and the expression on my grandfather's face when he discovered me perched in the tree.
However, the peculiar thing about memories is that the more you recall them, the more their reliability wanes. Surprisingly, my mother, who spent her upbringing in that very house, has no recollection of a mango tree. No matter how vividly I depicted it to her.
"That's not how it was in your father's house," she would insist. "We were never permitted to enter the courtyard. How could you have accessed a tree there?" Her tone conveyed both wonder and bewilderment. Given the chance, I am certain my mother would have labeled me a fabricator. Instead, she uttered, "These memories don't belong to you, my dear," and dismissed me, as all parents are wont to do. As if my memories somehow belonged to another person. It mattered little. If my memories did not align with hers, it was as if they never existed at all.
I distinctly recall my visit to my grandfather before he departed from this world. Desperate to affirm the authenticity of my memories and cling to the purity of that day, I took the plunge and booked a flight, embarking on a 1,500-mile journey back to Home. My sole purpose was to inquire about the day he discovered me perched in the mango tree.
