SIX O’CLOCK in the morning and the dawning of a new day.
Like the warmth of a smile, the sun’s ray continued the celebration of life. The sounds of crowing roosters, twittering birds, and the awaking aroma of breakfast wafting in the air were morning in the countryside.
I was standing at the gate of my grandmother’s garden, the grass still wet from the early morning’s dew, my bare feet feeling cool to the touch. It is, my grandmother had said, a heavenly gift, the dew and drinking a few drops in the morning was good for the body. I wasn’t sure about that and come to think of it I wasn’t sure of many things she said or believed but I always went along with her stories, real or superstitious for she was an old woman, wise to the world. I knew when I was old enough and more learned, I would be able to separate the true from the make-believe. I picked a leaf from the hibiscus plant and drank the few glistening dew drops, letting my heart believe this was true.

She lifted her head and saw me, “Aarti, yuh here already, come, chile.”
She was standing between the rows of tomato plants, carefully harvesting her crop. It was why I sometimes come early, to help her, before I go to school, for she had to walk half of a mile to the local market to sell her produce.
She was a hard-working woman, for all the twelve years of my life; I knew her jolly, cheerful and a little cranky. Her brown eyes with flecks of green always seemed to have a smile and she eluded a grandmotherly charm that seemed to pull me like a magnet. I don’t know, but there seemed to be something very special about her that I wasn’t sure of, a kind of power she probably inherited that came from the gods.

She had a great passion for gardening, it was her love, her life and though her children didn’t share her passion and my brothers and cousins only came by for the fruits, I somehow bonded with her. I loved to listen to the stories of the Mahabarat, of plantation life, the little she knew of her mother’s life in India, mysteries and superstitions of the British and Dutch.
I guess, maybe, it was because I loved to read and had a very curious mind and even though, my brothers would make fun of her tales, I always listened fascinated for in between were precious words that gave life its value and real meaning, words that came from a generation older than her.

She sang snatches of bhagans as she worked and at the sound of the sugar estate whistle, she packed my basket with celery, thyme and tomatoes for my mother and said, “Go, now, chile is time fuh school.” As I made to leave she called me back and put a small leaf in my hand, saying, “Is a tulsie leaf, a little blessing fuh yuh as yuh study today.”
I sat in class wondering about the tulsie leaf, what kind of blessing can it bestow on me, for today was a big maths test. I really was not good at the subject and I simply did not like it, but I had to somehow conquer the world of Mathematics and totally forgot about the tulsie leaf in my hand as I worked. I wasn’t quite sure how it happened, but I scored a B+ on the test paper, something I never did and I seriously opened my heart to the fact that the tulsie plant had magical power.

“All it tek,” my grandmother said, “is ah little belief.” I smiled and hugged her, the dear old woman, strong and wise, a gem of the past that helps light the road of the future for the young who cared to listen and the crankiness that always brought laughter.
On my thirteenth birthday, she brought for me a nicely wrapped present and my second brother whispered, mischievously,” What she bring dis time, de skeleton of a cat?” ‘’Stop it,” I said, slightly annoyed. The last birthday she had brought for me a few books that had seen better days, from a box under her bed, the skeleton of a little lizard in one of them and a dead spider. Those books of poems were of great value, my teacher had said, written by old Indian poets, long dead. I opened my present and there in a clay pot was a little tulsie tree.

The boys tried not to laugh, but laugh they did and she said something to them in Hindi that they didn’t understand and I was quite sure it was not something nice. I thanked her with an affectionate kiss and together we planted my little tulsie tree in my garden.
Time went on and I developed into a young woman of virtue and dignity with deep belief as I watered the tulsie tree every morning as the sun rose and say my prayers. I prayed for all those close to me and for those who needed it and today, I prayed for my friend, Damien, the pastor’s son, who was very ill, with a heart problem.

Some days I read to him from the old book of poems and he would touch my hand and smile weakly and one day he said, “Aarthi you are a really good friend and though we have different beliefs, still pray for me.”
I looked at his mother standing by his side and she smiled at me, tears in her eyes. I lent him a book of poems with a tulsie leaf between the pages, the morning he left for surgery.

A few weeks later, as I stepped into my garden, early the morning, he was standing by the gate, a big smile on his face, to return my book. My heart exulted for him, for prayers, for belief and for that wonderful old woman, my grandmother, who taught me so much. One morning, I did not see her in her garden and she did not answer when I called. It was with deep sadness in my heart when I touched her almost cold hand and saw the light in her eyes, slowly going out. She held my hand and whispered my name and I felt that little sensation of something strong and pure entered my being as life left her body. The sun didn’t shine for me that morning, nor did I hear the birds singing and as her pyre was lit, my tears flowed for a loved one, now gone, sad that I will see her no more, happy for the time I spent with her. All I learnt that enriched my mind, blessed for the touch of power she imparted to me and the one thing, I will cherish in her name, the special gift of my little tulsie tree.