In Pakistan, in the village my father grew up in, apples were a delicacy, a special treat for special occasions such as a special guest gracing your family with their presence. Apples were not merely tossed into a basket set on the kitchen counter to casually grab and eat as one walked out to get the paper or check the mail. No- apples were gently washed, seeded and quartered and placed circular upon a plate as each person took a slice, enjoying its juicy, sweet, and sometimes tangy flavor. Savored much like a creme brulee or an equally fine dish to be handled with care, respect. So imagine the surprise, an ocean away, sitting in a subway as he looks at the passenger occupying the seat just across from his. She wears a dull green dress and a pill box hat. In one hand she holds a book, her eyes casually perusing, and in the other an apple, eaten nonchalantly in a dirty New York subway. An ordinary day, and an ordinary thing, eating an apple on the way to work, and yet it seemed a most unusual sight at the time, perhaps akin to my seeing a haggard man in the subway breathing a sigh, lifting a filet mignon with both hands and proceeding to stuff it in his mouth. Or perhaps a lady eating creme brulee by absently dipping her fingers into it, at the laundromat. It must have seemed so absurd, just like that. But in truth, allusions are as close as I can get to understanding for American Apples are the only type I know, I envy those with different flavors to color their memories, different shades of greens and red. (Photo source)

Labels: desi, family, thoughts

posted by Aisha @ 12:11 AM || 19 comments