Wednesday 16 October 2019

Write ...Edit ...Publish ... + IWSG October 2019 : Horrible Harvest




Creeeeeak!!


That, dear Writers, was the sound of the October Challenge opening at Write...Edit...Publish..., so click ye forthwith and link up with your post URL directly over there. There are multiple prizes this time. Quick!…the linky closes on the 18th…What’s that? you don’t do horror…you have no dealings with zombies…nor vampires…and...supernatural beings just don’t...um...rock your socks? 


Not a problem! Write what you fancy and interpret the prompt whichever way your heart dictates. I am doing that myself and sticking doggedly to the photo-essays … :) Because there are only three rules at WEP – no genre restrictions, no genre restrictions, no genre restrictions (except erotica). No, four - another one re word count.


Come  join the fun!



Grow. Yield. Reel.


Memory is a late afternoon shimmering in the backyard, if it could be called a yard, because there was no fencing, no boundaries. The front of the house came with some kind of a rudimentary driveway at least.  The backyard ended where Matthias the gardener had decided to stop hacking the scrub bush, marked vaguely by a giant wild fig.  The bungalow style quarter had an oddly  long, narrow footprint - memory is that house in all its minute detail though I spent most of my waking hours outside – either at the front gravelled driveway, or in the back, watching the antlions’ dens…the comings and goings of tiny animals…the young household help inexpertly slaughter a chicken.  I would come back from school, slip into a muslin chemise which for reasons unknown was called a ‘penny’, have some lunch somehow and  rush outdoors as soon as the ‘sun’s-too-high’ curfew was over.



After the first tumultuous year, Matthias and my mother planted a kitchen garden between the back patio and the fig. I was not too fond of vegetables – the Indian bitter gourds, the terrible bitter dishes of neem-aubergines which were cooked with shoots freshly plucked off the neem tree on the far side of the garage. The pale squashes and cauliflowers and squat looking cucumbers – I mean, what self-respecting kid likes those? That harvest was as horrible as it could get.


My mother spent a heap of time in lynx-eyed vigilance against creeping and flying pestilences that might descend on her beloved veggie patch. The budding of the aubergine, both flower and fruit, were Events – marked with the quick spontaneous parody of famous Tagore songs, much laughter and general celebration. The garden cramped my style a bit, because I had been used to setting up my own games under the shade of the fig, but now Matthias had flowerbeds in front and this densely planted veggie garden in the relatively well-shaded, more private back. Around which I had to tiptoe lest the plants get disturbed and stop growing.


He told me off for stepping on a squash vine once and when I complained to my mum, she heartlessly sided with him and said I should stick to the porch. And why was I roaming around outside in front of the gardener in a flimsy, strappy chemise without a proper dress on anyway?  Don’t do that girl, you are not a child anymore. But though I learnt to put on and keep on a dress over the chemise, even on shimmery hot afternoons, I remained a child for a long time after.


As every parent knows, growth is a step function, it happens in spurts. My growth was signposted by deaths in the family. The first was catastrophic – though I was too young to appreciate its overarching implications at the time. A few months into our relocation in Nigeria, my father’s young brother-in-law, the youngest son-in-law of the family at Dover Lane, died in his early thirties.  It reset the family dynamics forever and tightened up my relationships with Dover Lane and its residents subsequently. The second death was that of my grandmother, the one who left a legacy of pickles, priceless lessons in grace and minimal gold value. Life and death both have their own strange, irrevocable ways of growing people up, wherever the individual may be on the learning curve. Witnessing grief is the first step to navigating it  - an education in itself. But the scariest growth spurt, the most horrible of the harvests was still to come.


***


The kitchen garden disappeared like a puff of smoke when we moved to Bauchi. That tiny town-suddenly-elevated-to-state-capital was wholly unable to cope with the rapid and massive influx of the relocated personnel. There was no place in the government facilities, there were no starred hotels in Bauchi then, only the government rest house. Which was full up with other officers, come in from the trifurcation of human resources. Only one of my father’s Maiduguri colleagues was allotted quarters. I have no idea why, but my father was accommodated in the guest annexe of the bungalow of a British officer,  at that time possibly the seniormost expat in Bauchi. There was no kitchen, I’m sure the lady must have made an offer to my mum about dining arrangements, but neither party knew the other, so obviously my parents did not want to intrude more than they already were. We ate at my father's colleague's quarters, and slept at the Brit officer's. Seriously weird system, but the discomfort of sleeping under a perfect stranger’s roof kept my resentment at the relocation simmering pleasantly along.


Courtesy: Malini Mehan
In time we were moved into a house, three bungalows away. It was a complete contrast to 46, G.R.A., Maiduguri – an ancient, stone-built three-bedroom colonial property dating from the 40's or 50's maybe. My bedroom was really a wide passageway - it had no door, and no washbasin, unlike the one I had just come from. No wrap around balconies here either, no ceiling fans, instead a fireplace in the living area! Also a driveway lined with a row of mature, tall, pale-barked, probably gmelina trees. They would fill up with caterpillars once or twice a year. Apart from the trees, the rest of the compound was bare, beaten earth. I’m sure it must have been landscaped originally, but nothing of that was in evidence. There was no question of our planting anything, because there was no extra water. The supply was brought round by tankers at periodic intervals. The taps would often run dry before the tanker called. I hastily learnt to be economical. My mother gave up all notions of growing Indian veggies pronto – the only good thing to come out of the move from my perspective.  


But unbeknownst to all of us, she was growing a far more sinister crop. That, when it ripened, grew me up completely and sent me reeling into adulthood.


WC - 986
FCA


Read the other entries here: 

42 comments:

  1. Hari OM
    ...gracious!.. real life cliff-hanger there, Nila!

    Loved this and the memories it brought back of my own mother confounding the gardener in Benin City with her determination to be outside planting and tending fruit and veg with him! YAM xx

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    1. I think all Naijja expat mums were determined not to be done out their veggies/fruits they got at home :)

      Glad you enjoyed it.

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  2. Those vegetables do sound like a horrible harvest.
    Indeed, that is quite the cliff-hanger you leave us with! A very interesting tale.

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    1. The gourds were seriously bitter - subsequently found out they are a great detox, but honestly, who cares about that in teenage?

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  3. Hi,
    I read your Flash and came away with a very sad feeling of dread. The way you built up the trauma held me in your story and I felt like you were talking to me about the harshness or horrors that present themselves in life.

    You have an awesome way of making a memoir come to life and I admire that.

    Shalom aleichem,
    Pat G

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    1. It wasn't as bleak - it took me a while to settle down after the move but once I did, it was all good. My mum's 'horrible harvest' was some years away, there was no foreshadowing, it is only in hindsight it becomes clear. Carefree and clueless childhood! :)

      Thank you for your feedback.

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  4. whoa - you left us hanging with a sinister crop. Oh my. Excellent writing

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    1. Thank you Joanne. Didn't really want to do a cliffhanger ending, but wordlimits... :)

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  5. Very evocative. Your memoir skills are razor sharp. Memory is an ever harvested field that yields bitter crops for the bruised in life.

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    1. Thanks for the feedback. The harvest is mostly sweet, bittersweet at worst...nary a mark on me in childhood, very sheltered, boring life. The bruises, whatever there were, coincided most strangely with adulthood...

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  6. Well - you sure left us hanging!!!
    Your descriptions are lovely and bring me right in!

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    1. This would have been twice the wordcount and no cliffhangers...but what to do? :) Had to keep it down to a thousand. Glad you liked the descriptions.

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  7. Your memoir is always so rich in scent, flavour and texture. How I would love to read more, even knowing that the harvest is sometimes going to taste vile. I am hoping however, for a spoonful of sugar to help the medecine go down - which your evocative writing will provide.

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    1. I think it was Frank McCourt who wrote that a happy childhood doesn't make for a good memoir...this was a difficult write, as the vilest thing I've tasted was a vegetable...:) Thank you for your support.

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  8. Oh, dear! Your know that Chinese curse: "Let your life be interesting." Your life seems to have been very interesting, starting in your childhood, even though nobody had cursed you. You were too young for that, and my heart feels for that child.
    A beautiful and poignant memoir fragment.

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    1. Thanks Olga. How wonderful to be cursed/blessed in that way!

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  9. Really evocative. I'm curious what those veggies taste like. That ending makes me wonder what happens next!

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    1. In one word - awful. They taste awful. But they're supposed to be seriously good for you. I'll try and clear up the ending in the Dec post ...

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  10. I am so impressed with the way you tell this story, this true story. I'm often put off by memoirs that are supposed to be personal yet feel distant. You're essays have always left an impression on me, and this one is no different.
    I wonder what the veggies taste like?
    And, I can't imagine what the "sinister crop" was.

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    Replies
    1. Glad you liked the essays, thanks. In a nutshell, veggies from hell!

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  11. This was brilliantly done! The details drew me in and kept me hooked. I felt like you transported me there. And that ending definitely left me wanting to know more!

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    1. Thanks, Laura. Rather nice looking back and reminiscing :)

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  12. Seriously Nila you must work on that memoir. You’ve got such interesting stories to tell. Those veggies fit the bill for the challenge if not for your stomach. We’d all like to read more in December.

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    1. Those veggies fit the bill for the 'horrible-est' of harvests for sure. :)

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  13. As a reading teacher we were taught to ask questions of our students that would help them make predictions, and that would encourage them to want to read on. You have done a fabulous job of that... can't wait for the next challenge!

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  14. I love reading these beautifully penned reminiscences of yours. What a fabulous turn of phrase you have. "Lynx-eyed vigilance" and "As every parent knows, growth is a step function, it happens in spurts."

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    1. Thank you, pleased you enjoyed it. I'll have to find a way to vault to Delhi for the next challenge if I want to resolve the cliffhanger :) a very different Delhi from the one in which Kelly is, of course.

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  15. A very evocative piece, I could 'see' you as a child. The references to the horrible harvest i.e. veggies made me smile and then you leave us hanging. Great stuff.

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  16. I share your feelings about the 'horrible veggies'. Certainly didn't expect the cliff-hanger ending.

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    1. I've never managed to develop a taste for the bitter gourds - even into adulthood. Those harvests scarred me for life! :)

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  17. Very true indeed. Life and death can grow one up in many a way that isn't expected sometimes. Sounds like some harvests are best avoided too haha

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    1. Yup, best not to touch them even with a bargepole! :)

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  18. Hi Nila - I certainly could see you in 'those lives' as your parents moved house etc ... and they gave me an image of the sort of thing my grandmother (married to my step-grandfather) would have experienced in Calcutta ... I never found out more - but story telling gives us a flavour - and here your Horrible Harvest - certainly did that.

    You do write so well ... evocatively - and I could 'taste' those veggies ... aubergine are for the older teenage years and on ... and as for bitter gourds ... interesting to learn about the laxative effect!

    I can guess your grandmother's nasty growths ... desperate - but an amazing way to describe that part of the horrible harvest to come. Life - we just don't know ... do we?

    Thanks - I loved this ... such real life instalments ... I so enjoyed reading it ... cheers Hilary

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  19. So descriptive and vivid. I felt like I was there living it with her! And the ending? I need more! Well done.

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    1. I will resolve the ending in the Dec entry I promise! :) Thanks.

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  20. Very evocative slice of your past. Veggies can be a 'horrible harvest' as a child, I suspect. Your memory makes them sound terrible - I hated spinach as a child, but grew to love it. Did your taste change?

    And will we discover more of what sounds traumatic?

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    1. Thanks Roland..I'm okay with most veggies now, but never did develop a tolerance for the Indian bitter gourds. I like my bitterness only in chocolate :)

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  21. Thank you Nilanjana. Such vivid memories. So excellently described. I travelled back in time with you and across oceans. The twist at the end had me second guessing. Still haven’t figured out the answer. Will have to ponder over the last paragraphs some more.
    Happy Halloween.

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    1. Thank you, glad you enjoyed reading. And happy Halloween to you too!

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