Appachan's Mulberry Tree

The mulberry tree is gone

so is Appachan's house that overlooked it.

Still I can hear the rustling Mulberry leaves

and travel my eyes through the coloured tiles that floored the house

Memory of my grandfather is incomplete without the mulberry tree

Just like the cuticura talcum powder 

which he coated over his body after every bath,

and the perfect white lines the talcum powder formed around his neck, as he sweated

I remember Appachan spreading a large plastic sheet beneath the Mulberry tree

before shaking the 'right' branch which brings down the maximum mulberries.

Watching the white sheet turn colour, as spots of red filled its canvas, was as interesting
as getting hold of all the mulberries in a plastic cover

I loved visiting him because he treated us with so many goodies

 Me and my sister could climb up and down the rubber plantations 

all day like the butterflies, care free,

jumbing across the thorny shrubs and the shallow stream

And come back home all hungry 

to the mouthwatering fish curry and steaming rice.

That was a place where we didn't get bored

We always had something interesting happening around

I remember the night and the cool breeze that rustled the curtains,

the calm silence of the night made calmer by the occasional sound of the crickets.

Appachen's room and the small round table on which stood the colourful glass paper weights 

and the medicine box which had medicines of all sizes, shapes and colours

The child in me was fascinated by the the poster of 'Oliver Twist',

pasted on the walls of a frighteningly big dark room

And the heartening tale of Oliver, punished for having  wished for a little more of poridge.

And more than anything else, the 'stethescope' in the big steel almirah!

The house had innumerable rooms with wooden doors and
 rooms  which opened into another room, that opened into another, and yet another 

The big kitchen with a fireplace and the well outside,

near its bank me and my sister had been bathed many times

The small wooden house for the hens had the cutest tiny door one could ever spot

The big cowshed with no cows, but a whole lot of wood and hay,

the coffee shrub that sprayed the evening hours with tempting flavours,

the brightly coloured cherries that I longed so much to pluck 

but never could because the sharp thorns always hurt my little hands

Theses glimpses will never fade away

The memories gush forth like the cold stream hitting our warm legs

Years have passed I know

But those mulberries refuse to fade its bright colour