But it’s over now
It was a summer afternoon. The sun was already racing towards the west. (Where I come from, it gets darker faster than the mainland. The sun never disappears on the horizon. Rather it is embraced by the mountains before its exit, dyeing the skies).
My grandmother and I were talking. She was lying on her kouna mat as I took my position on a stool. “She looks comfortable,” I remember thinking as she fanned herself with her favourite gumcha. Our summers used to be not too hot — perfect for a siesta in the shade.
Like many other afternoons, we ate gooseberries. I was in that tangy interlude, orchestrated by the fruit, and was looking forward to a sweet sip or two of water. There is something about gooseberries in salt and chilli powder and the impending sip of water, afterwards.
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I remember seeing my grandmother’s wrinkles and thinking how those delicate lines were drawn by eons of living that not only weathered her and made her laden with tales.
Her humble transistor was on. It was always on.
It must have been after two. The language on the radio switched to English. I barely paid attention to the anchor’s voice but was suddenly captivated by the drum intro of “It must have been love” by Roxette on the Medium Wave. It was not the first time that I heard that song but I drowned in it, that afternoon.
It has been more than two decades. But whenever that song plays on shuffle, at the mall, restaurants, on FM radio or when a divine algorithm pushes it, I’m shipped to that afternoon. That perfect convergence of time, weather, climate and my grandmother’s and my shared existence!
