“Here you are, this one is for you,” said my grandad as he cut the juiciest, biggest guava on the tree and placed it in my small, open hands. He had wrapped the fruit loosely in plastic to help it grow even bigger and to guard it against birds. Even the boss of the family (my grandma) wasn’t allowed to touch it.
My mum, dad and I visited my grandparents every weekend. They used to live in Mandalay, Burma’s second city, in a house surrounded by a big garden with plenty of trees and plants. But the tree I remembered the best was the one that gave me big delicious guavas that my grandad reserved for me every week.
I remember getting excited at the prospect of sleeping over at my grandparents’ because that meant I got to sit with my grandad after dinner and listen to the stories that seemed to flow endlessly out from him. He used to entertain me with stories until my grandma told me to go to bed. We would sit in the garden in the cool breeze, flapping our fans about to keep the mosquitoes away from our bare arms and legs. We would gaze at the moon and stars, inhaling the scent from jasmine flowers and sucking on palm sugar lumps.
I found out that America was originally occupied by Red Indians. I was very surprised to hear that white people were actually immigrants. I also discovered the seven stars. What’s more, I learnt about the British and Japanese invasion to Burma. I soaked up the stories of Cinderella and Snow White.
Between telling me tales, my grandad would sneak into his room. He would come back gleefully reloaded with more narratives. One thing, though. My grandad wouldn’t let me see why he kept sneaking back to his room. So, one night, I tiptoed after him. I saw him pull out a small bottle from under his bed. He poured some of the contents into a small glass, downed it in one gulp and smacked his lips. The liquid oozed a sharp pungent smell.
My grandad was an alcoholic. He was irresponsible towards his family and probably never cared about anyone, not even his own children. My grandma married him without even liking him. He was a well-educated bank manager. In the 1950s in Burma, university graduates were like gold. So, he seemed to be a good catch for my grandma, who didn’t even finish school. He convinced her that her boyfriend was playing her for a fool which turned out to be completely wrong. But she had already married my grandad by the time she found out.
Even though my grandad was a university graduate and had a good job, he never tried to get ahead. He was only interested in increasing his alcohol intake rather than his career prospects. By the time they had 5 children, they were quite poor. His once sufficient salary was no longer enough. But he didn’t lift a finger to solve the problem. My grandma tried to solve it. But in those days, women weren’t well accepted in jobs, especially my grandma who didn’t have a good education.
Eventually his children grew up and started working to keep the family afloat. My mum got married and I was born a few years later. Then, the family lost one member suddenly: one of my uncles. While everyone tried to cope with the tragedy, my grandad carried on drinking, seemingly oblivious to the suffering around him. Nobody really had much interaction with him. He would just eat, drink and go to work on his elderly bicycle, the same one he had used for much of his working life.
One day, he was admitted to the hospital. He had liver failure. During his one-week stay in hospital, my grandma visited him only once and my mum and dad, a few times. My mum went there out of kindness and obligation, even though she hated him. My dad visited because he was my mum’s husband.
I didn’t visit the old man. I didn’t want to go to the unpleasant, germ-infected hospital. For my 11-years-old self, that was more important than seeing how my grandad was doing.
A few days later, he died. He was only 61.
Nobody shed a tear at his funeral.
Years later, on one of the visits to my old grandparents’ house, I plucked and bit into the soft flesh of the biggest, juiciest guava on the tree. Suddenly, I remembered how my grandad used to save the best fruit for me. The despicable grandad that nobody missed had made sure I got the best fruit off my favourite tree.
So I shed a tear for my grandad.
If there was one person my grandad cared about in his whole life, it was probably me. I wished I had visited him at the hospital and said “Thank you for saving the best fruit for me.”