THE CALL GOT disconnected. It seemed abrupt. One moment, Chirag could see his Gramps picking vegetables at a farmer’s market in India. The next moment he was gone!
The blast was so powerful it had ripped apart every window from its hinge within 100 metres. Senseless, mindless, pointless… as Gramps would say when he heard about terrorist attacks. Chirag would forever remember the last conversation with the man he loved the most.
“Do you remember how to pick the perfect papaya, Chirag beta?”
“Yup.”
“This is a real market, Chirag. Not the fancy air-conditioned place where your mom shops. There, every fruit looks like a new bride.”
Chirag laughed. Gramps, and his way of speaking. Unique.
“I’ve been to India, Gramps in case you don’t remember.”
“Pick the best one for me then.”
“Without touching it, picking the perfect one ain’t easy.”
“Don’t worry about perfection. Getting close is good enough. And it’s not ain’t, it’s isn’t.”
“Don’t worry about perfection.” Chirag laughed.
“Alright Smart Aleck, pick now.”
“Take the phone closer.”
Gramps moved the phone around, slowly and deliberately, giving Chirag enough time to look. Four fruit vendors had gathered to watch the spectacle. They waited with bated breath.
“First one from the right.”
Gramps pointed a finger at it.
“Yup.”
“Why?”
“The yellow is uniform. The rest look too green from here. It’s probably ready – but not overripe. My buck's on it.”
Gramps picked up the chosen one and held it up like a trophy a grandchild has brought home after winning the national spelling bee.
“Did you plant it there before calling, so that I’d pick it?”
Gramps frowned. “Why would I do that?”
“To brag.”
“I would never do that.”
“Yeah right.”
Gopi, the fruit stall owner and one among the four onlookers, interrupted with a toothless grin. “Perfect pick, Dr. Banerjee.”
Gramps smiled. “Chirag picked it.”
“Only fifteen years old.” Gopi was filled with admiration. The three other onlookers nodded in agreement.
“Remarkable. Or not?”
Gopi nodded, “Remarkable. Picked perfect fruit all the way from America.”
A new face popped up on the screen. Then another. More vendors. Curious to catch a glimpse of the brilliant grandson of Dr. Banerjee – the wonder boy who could select the perfect papaya from thousands of miles away.
Gramps was patient with the jostling men desperate to get in the frame. He moved the phone a bit. “Wait, wait. Everyone will get a chance.”
The men cheered and waved to the wonder boy. Chirag forced himself to deliver his best smile to the excited fans.
Gramps beamed. “7000 miles away. My grandson.”
“Chirag Baba is a genius.” Gopi endorsed.
The assembled men nodded in absolute agreement.
“I know.” Gramps had the last word.
That was it.
Gramps was gone. Holding the perfectly ripe trophy that the love of his life had so smartly picked across the world.
The work of terrorists.
Senseless, mindless, pointless…
