The Sweltering Sun and Taste of Guava
The sun would scorch the tarmac into a gooey mess, not a soul in sight. I remember sitting on the chair, my sister lazing on the sofa and brother, then a toddler, jumping on the bed, my nose almost touching the window fence separating my face from the cooler. Singing crookedly so that my voice would reverberate back to me comically, it was a fun enough game to pass those long summer afternoon hours.
The sedating smells of Kevda from the hay stack in cooler still feels fresh. My dadi would hush us to pay attention to the calling of the fruit vendor, perhaps the lone soul that would traverse the broiling streets when every one was lazing inside, sheltered from the sweltering sun. My baba (grandpa) would put a towel on head before braving the outside. He always kept bundle of money neatly folded near the gate, any change would always return there.
After five minute of wait he would return , a polythene bag in his hand with a tight knot, and us kids salivating at the entrance. As the knot was untied and the green fruit (not too raw not too ripe just how we preferred) would be sliced by dadi who would then put a spice mix on it that made the guava taste ambrosial.
With each bite the sweet and tart flavor would linger on, creating memories and sealing those moments.
Guava has never been just a fruit, it’s a memory, a reminder of the memories that are fading but they gain strength when I hold a guava in my hands and taste it today.
