An Eye on England, Sitaphal and Love

I used to love the custard-apple as a child. In Bengal, it is known as the aata. It is one of the ugliest fruits in appearance, with scaly black-green skin and hard, black seeds inside. One must cut it in half and scoop out of the pale flesh of the fruit around the seeds. Usually, we just spoon everything into our mouth and spit the seeds out.
I lost patience with this tedious fruit. You couldn't make a milkshake out of it and pour it down quickly. It is a sit-down-Sunday-breakfast fruit, requiring spoon and plate and time.

Dadu sent me some aatas yesterday. All the way from Kolkata.
Dadu is 77 now, and forgets a lot of things. For instance, that this is not the season for aata. I imagine him out for a walk, passing the fragrant fruit-stalls at Jadubabu's Bajar, seeing the aatas, and simply remembering that I used to love them. That, for him was enough reason to buy them.
When I called this morning to tell him I had eaten one of the aatas for breakfast, he read me an article on rising crime among college-age people in England. 'This happens mainly in industrial towns,'he said soberly, implying his disapproval of my applying to universities in such towns.

S once said to me, 'Grandparents always have a lot of affection for their grandchildren.'

I thought this too simple to integrate into my life. Where I am, family and blood is not always the same thing.
But thinking about it last night, thinking of the three aatas curled up in the fruit-bowl, I figured that maybe S had a point.
Always having affection isn't simple. Not at all.