If I were a mother I would have told the same tale to my child about red ruby the way my grandmother told me forty six years ago. It was 1963, I had just turned six, sitting on a faded red cement front steps at grandmother's house in Batu Uban, Penang. My two younger brothers sat on each side of me with ripe pomegranate in their hands.
I set aside the pomegranate in my hand. I laced my fingers of my both hands. The laced fingers form a solid foundation. I told my youngest brother M to place his pomegranate in a cradle of my laced fingers.
I leaned forward with each of my elbows rested on my knees. Slowly but firmly I pressed the pomegranate between my palms. The pomegranates grew in Malaysia weren't as big as we get here. The seeds were faded red, but they were as good as we got.
The skin of the fruit started to crack. I dug my right thumb into a tiny slit of the skin and ran my thumb as precisely as a six year old kid could be. I had my two younger siblings who thought I was the smartest and the best big sister because I ran fast, I could climb any trees like a monkey, I could fly the kite as high as any kid could, I could use a sling shot with a slick movement. I couldn't fail them by not able to crack open the pomegranate.
M squealed and clapped his hands when the pomegranate finally broke into two halves. A few of red ruby slipped between my fingers and fell on the stairs near my feet.
"Pick them up, pick them up and put them back in my hands." I ordered M who was now drooling and couldn't wait to grab the fruit from my hand.
"Don't let even one seed fall on the ground, not even one."
"Mak said not pick up the food off the ground."
"This is different. Pomegranate is ruby in disguise."
"Like pomegranate wearing a mask? And what is ruby"?
"Something like that."
"Like a Batman's mask?"
"Something like that. I'll tell you later."
As I handed over T's split opened pomegranate I repeated the tale about a girl who bit a red ruby while eating pomegranate. Grandmother told me this tale when had just moved back to her house . The year my father was shipped to Congo.
Four years ago when I wrote an entry about a pomegranate I was in full blown against some tales the old folks told us when we were kids. Along those years until now, I've shifted a little here and there. And the tale of pomegranate I've seen in different light.
Perhaps there were reasons when the old folks came up with some stories that now we view as myth/tales.
As we grow older our sense of wonder turn into skeptical. If we are not careful we will turn into an old bitter fart. And I don't want to turn into an old bitter fart. I want to hold to some sense of wonder, I want to feel my lung bursting with happiness and my heart explode into million pieces of contentment just when I step on the wet grass on Sunday morning.
I'm glad I believed with all my heart that I would bit into a ruby when ever I age pomegranate when I was a little girl.
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