My grandfather’s garden

The Chinese brought their beloved lychee tree in the 1800’s to India, which is a large, evergreen, subtropical tree that was then cultivated as a livelihood for employment, especially in the Indian state of Bihar. Lychee trees reached South Africa in 1875 from Mauritius. The first and oldest lychee tree in South Africa was planted at the Durban Botanical Garden in that year.

The British Raj, who shipped Indians to South Africa in 1860, as they did to other plantation lands and islands, ensured that my grandparents’ ancestors stepped onto African soil and for generations thereafter made Africa their home, bringing with them the flora that they were accustomed to, planting themselves and growing deep roots into this similar biome.

I am part of that indentured laborer Indian diaspora, and in KwaZulu Natal one will find a place where brown people hold on to their culture and traditions from the motherland, as well as their love for all things subtropical, creating a unique AfroIndian culture. I believe it to be evergreen in its uniqueness and resilience. It is here that my grandfather created a small lychee orchard, which was a constant source of enjoyment to everyone he shared the exotic fruit crops with.

Lychees are fragile plants, which need protection from intense winds and thrive in deep, fertile, well-drained soil and full sun. So too was I a fragile child, shy and with a constant need for nurturing but who thrived on the deep love and nourishment that my grandparents shone on me.

Now as an adult, I love returning to Verulam, and being in that sultry, humid subtropical heat, where the air is so thick one could cut it with a knife. I am assailed by the scents and sights of mango, passion fruit vines and of lychee trees, which to me symbolized Christmas. The red drupe fruit weighing down the branches of the tree, was always in season during our hot Decembers.

My memories of my tall, lanky, grandfather, skin the color of jaggery, always in pristine white and often with a cowboy hat to protect from the harsh sun, permeate my senses, especially during fruit season. He had a short white beard that he took pride in brushing and regularly trimming. Appearance and neatness were always a priority for him. He was so unique in the discipline and structure that he lived his life by. Even his car was white and always spotlessly clean! It seems to me that he only ever wore pristine white, doused with Indian attar, and he always smelt fragrant like the flowers he tended to.

I am reminded of the tartness of the endless passionflowers that grew in wild abandonment watered by his disciplined hands, the syrupy sweetness of the lychees that he tended so lovingly, and the cups of tea ☕️ that he drank at certain times of the day, emulating the British colonialists that brought his family here.

My grandfather was so proud of me, his first grandchild. I was an unremarkable, difficult child, a chubby overeater, prone to throwing up frequently from overeating, especially when visiting, no redeeming traits to brag about such as reciting Islamic verses by heart, and no outstanding sports achievements which my other cousins had earned. When chosen as a mascot for a school sports house, (the only seemingly safe task for me to execute) I ruined my tights and outfit in record time, attempting to use the awful “eastern toilets” during one of my frequent needs to pee. No pristine neatness anywhere around me.

The only other traits I exhibited besides my clumsiness and overeating where of frequent headaches and complaining. Yet he loved me unconditionally and found things to be proud about. It amazed me that this disciplined, structured man adored me. To the outside world he was stern and stiff, and he often barked at other kids or disciplined them. Somehow, he found reasons to let me be!

I often spent Saturdays with him and my granny, whilst he tended his orchard. He had over a dozen litchi trees, and there was magic in his hands, because the litchis on his land were the sweetest, with the smallest shiny deep brown seeds, making way for the juiciest meatiest lychee. I have memories of lychee juice dripping off my forearms as I ate them, whilst biting into that bumpy pinkish bright red skin to taste the pearly white juicy fruit inside.

The birds always loved to be in his garden as did the bees and snakes 🐍, as they all fed from his garden. His garden was lush with lychee trees, some mango, granadilla vines, guavas and other very tropical fruit to suit the climate. They lived in unison with the tall stately palm trees that created a natural boundary for the end of the property which dropped onto a steep hill and reached the other side of a main road. At the front of his garden, he had a variety of ferns and indigenous plants and flowers… and I suppose the subtropical flora could have been a throwback to our ancestors in India.

He spent a full morning tending to his garden, which kept his garden thriving and him physically and mentally fit. In the afternoons after lunch, he would spend his time reading to us from Encyclopedia Britannica, his well-worn set which included useful information as well as fairytales that transported us far away. This usually stern man would also be singing jolly songs to my sister and I, for entertainment, every Saturday afternoon. I can still remember his voice singing American folk songs to his 2 brown granddaughters, of “she’ll be coming around the mountain”.

He was a teacher, a principal, and he believed in a very structured life. Up early, and spend no day without toil, toiling in the garden, for no other purpose but to see it grow. He did not sell his fruit, but his generosity was known throughout the community. During lychee season, everybody would receive generous bags of lychees from him. I have never since, tasted a lychee as sweet or fat and juicy as those that grew under his hands. I will forever cherish the memories of his beautiful orchard, which has disappeared under the annals of time, left in disrepair and now sold.

I do not share any commons traits with him, besides my occasional foray into gardening and love of blooms. The ferns he gave me lived on until I was an adult and traveled around the country with me… I finally put the fronds to rest in my mother’s garden.

My childhood memories are entwined in his magical tropical garden where everything bloomed with love, care and a dose of discipline. I will never forget the distinct sounds of the palm trees swaying in the breeze, sounding a bit like waves of the ocean. Or the bitter taste that invades one’s mouth while accidentally biting into a lychee seed, when reluctant to end that sweet flavorful taste from the lychee. These are my memories, that I carry with me, steeped in bittersweet nostalgia …sweetness for having experienced it and bitterness for not having it anymore.