On sunny spring day, when my grandfather, whom I dearly called \u00abAta\u00bb, swept
all the apricot pits that were drying on a window sill.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 What are going to do with them, Ata? \u2013 I asked curiously.
\u2013 Come along with me, Balam, and I\u2019ll show you, \u2013 said he in his mild manner,
smiling up the veranda we were in.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
I put on my light, colorful jacket, a cap, as mother always instructed me and
went outdoors to join my old, yet swift grandfather. The garden gate was securely guarded by our stern looking cat named Hodja. \u201cCome here, botam\u201d, was Ata\u2019s voice calling me a \u201cbaby camel\u201d in his habitual manner. All the grandchildren of our household, including me were baby camels, fowls, calves, lambs, kids and chickens from time to time. Only when we did something bad, like stealing apples from our neighbour\u2019s garden or throwing stones at chasing dogs, our names were pronounced as they are. After petting the old furry red cat that swirled back and forth, enjoying the sun warmth, I rushed to my busy grandfather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Here you go, take these, \u2013 said he, pouring a handful of dried apricot pits in
my palms. \u2013 That shall be enough. The rest we\u2019ll leave for your grandmother\u2019s
apricot jam.
\u2013 She says only fresh ones will do, \u2013 I replied, shaking the dangling seeds in my
hands.
\u2013 Oh! That\u2019s right, you boy, I nearly forgot! Then, we\u2019ll plant them all.
A heavy, wide trapezoid blade with the small hole in it, fixed to the long
wooden stick \u2013 the gardening instrument we called \u201cketmen\u201d was lifting and mixing the upper layers of soil gently following the skinny hands of my grandfather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Done! \u2013 exclaimed he after a while, feeling very much proud of fresh
looking, moist soil with the long narrow lines in it. \u2013 Now, let\u2019s see if you\u2019ve got a
light hand!
\u2013 What do you mean?, I asked curiously. \u2013 the light hand thing.
\u2013 If the seeds sprout \u2013 we\u2019ll say, you have a light hand, \u2013 he squinted his long eyes, hidden by heavy wrinkles, falling from eyebrows.
\u2013 What if not?
\u2013 Hm\u2026, \u2013 Ata contemplated, \u2013 then we\u2019ll try more and more, until you get it.
\u2013Are there people, who never get it? The ones with a \u201cheavy\u201d hand?, \u2013 I asked.
\u2013 Oh, yes\u2026, \u2013 his brows turned into sharp triangles. \u2013 senseless ones and
robots, perhaps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Robots?, I laughed with my mouth wide open, \u2018connecting two handles of a
couldron with a smile\u2019 as my grandma called it. Chilly air entered my throat through big corridors of absent teeth. Grandpa laughed heartily with me. One thing made us very alike \u2013 both of us were toothless.
\u2013 I doubt, robots will ever have a \u2018light\u2019 hand, \u2013 Ata replied joyously. \u2013 They
are soulless, aren\u2019t they?
Cautioned with the noise we made in the garden, Hodja ran up to the frontline
of the main scene. He was the real boss here and, therefore, needed to control what was going on. Looking at him, I recollected how scared we were with my brother and sister, running away from a mad dog. This time it was a big shepherd hound that took off its household, running the streets with an iron chain on. Gladly we saw a short fence of our neighbor\u2019s house and ran towards it. First, we lifted our sister over the fence, throwing her like a sack of potatoes, then we did same ourselves. The dog barked leaving us alone. We waited there awhile, grazing on bushes of ripe raspberry and the moment we were climbing the fence, we got busted! If it wasn\u2019t for our chubby, cry-baby sister, we could have escaped right in time. The neighbour, who worked as a local postman, was furious. His first thought was we ruined his garden and ate up all the raspberries. Only one of the two things was right. Grandma promised to punish us, speaking in an unnatural, strict voice, promising at least hundred of bloody lashes. Satisfied mean neighbour was offered grandma\u2019s deepest apologies and Ata\u2019s souvenir pen knife \u201cBaki\u201d. This blazer sharp piece of steel with beautifully carved ivory handle was an old time present from Ata\u2019s friend, living somewhere far, in one famous valley. Needless to say, how guilty I felt. Me, not we, for it was my idea to bother the sleeping dog with the stick. I felt terrible inside and with tears on my eyes I promised Ata never to touch any stray dog or any other animal. He comforted me softly, saying \u201cit was a good lesson, Balam, wasn\u2019t it\u201d. Then, he said that it\u2019s not them we owe our apologies, but the dog. \u201cImagine the life of a poor lad! His chain allows him to experience only one square meter of life! Didn\u2019t it (he actually said \u201che\u201d) deserve a proper, wholesome sleep stretching out his body in freedom\u201d. To my regrets about his souvenir pen-knife that he never had a chance to use, he said: \u201cI don\u2019t like fancy things, you know. My twenty-five year old wooden pen-knife, I carry with me, serves perfectly well. It waited its master and finally found it\u201d. His sincere smile assured me that, indeed, he was glad to let it go.
\u201cFancy things create temptations. Once you have one, there will be plenty of others, who\u2019d wish to have the same\u201d, his eyes glanced wittily.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Ata, what is fear?, I asked loudly, while accurately dropping the pits on the
distance of my palm. The reason I needed to raise this question was that damn
incident of yesterday that hadn\u2019t completely left me. I needed to find a culprit.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 The fear is\u2026hmm\u2026, \u2013 grandpa dived into his thought silently. \u2013 It\u2019s what you
hold in your hands.
\u2013 The apricot pit?, I asked doubting Ata\u2019s sanity.
\u2013 Its shell, to be precise, \u2013 he smiled. \u2013 The hard nut shell protecting the seed,
hence you.
\u2013No, Ata, \u2013 I said louder, \u2013 you must have not heard me properly. I asked what
the f-e-a-r is, f-e-a-r?
\u2013 I heard it perfectly well, balam, \u2013 he laughed kindly showing his toothless
mouth. \u2013 It is the n-u-t-s-h-e-l-l. If you think of life, you, me and Hodja are, in a form of a seed, this apricot seed, \u2013 he shook one pit, holding it with a thumb and an index finger, then the hard shell protecting it is the fear.
\u2013 Ok\u2026, I said turning sad and hopeless to hear proper explanation.
\u2013 It serves as a guarding shield, especially, when we are most vulnerable and
haven\u2019t experienced life. Once there is time to expand and explore what\u2019s up on the surface, the shell must gradually fall off, letting the seed sprout and live its own life.
\u2013 I still don\u2019t get it, \u2013 I said convinced in my own truth.
\u2013 You\u2019ll get it, when you come check them a year later. Very few of them, it
will be great if one, will sprout. The rest will remain sleeping in their shells. The soil is one for all, so we can\u2019t blame it, right? We all are like these apricot seeds, with the potential to become a fruit-bearing tree some day. But that\u2019s a long and uneasy journey. It\u2019s risky and full of adversities or adventures, as you wish to see them. Once you break through your fears, let them loose once they proved their service, you start a new life of your own. You begin as a sprout, tender, gentle, fragile sprout that can be hit by drought, freeze, flood or myriad of other things. Even Hodja could endanger them, you know, \u2013 he laughed heartily again. I melted, looking at his face and clapping my hands off dirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 It takes tremendous effort and energy for a small sprout to grow into a fruit
bearing tree, \u2013 Ata continued. \u2013 As a sprout any minor thing, like weather change, can kill it. Growing little bit bigger, there are insects and rodents of all kinds, thus, problems keep arising. But if you are a caring gardener, you try your best to nourish the roots, refresh the soil from time to time, water your tree plentifully, cut the dry branches, protect it from pests, then there is a good chance your tree will bear juicy, colorful apricots one day.
\u2013 Why, then, only few of them sprout? Aren\u2019t the conditions same for every
one?, I asked with a smart look on my face.
Ata cuddled my plume like hair, saying:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Because they don\u2019t break through shell. They don\u2019t try hard enough to get rid
of it. They hesitate to see the real life. What they don\u2019t know is that it\u2019s not only
rodents, extreme colds and pests they are not going to see, but also the heavenly singing of the birds, the colors of a rainbow, the smell of rain, the whiteness of snow, the blueness of sky, even the pinky little flowers on their branches, and, of course, the apricots themselves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 What if they do break the shell and die not seeing the \u2018butaq\u2019 (branches) and
\u2018orik\u2019 (apricots)? What if pests or heavy rain, or Hodja destroy them?
Ata rubbed his palms vigorously, showing how happy he was to hear that
question. His eyes shone with brilliant light, he got in times of excitement, so he
whispered:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 That\u2019s the beauty of life! You never know, until you experience it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
P.S. Never take a knife as present, buy or sell it<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Gathering one summer day red current grapes into big woven baskets, I asked
my grandpa:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Ata, who are the happiest people in life?
Plucking the little plump beads from tiny branches, he answered:<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013Nomads must be.
\u2013Why them? And who are these ‘n-o-m-a-d-s’?, \u2013 I hurried to ask back eagerly.
\u2013 Nomads \u2013 are eternal travelers. People, who never settle. Just like our ancestors did, moving from one place to the other. Or the gypsies, you know.
Who the gypsies were I knew well. There were many of them begging on the
streets of busy bazaar streets. They certainly did not seem to be the happiest cast.
\u2013 I don’t think you got my question, Ata. I mean \u2013 happy, hence, joyous, the
ones who have all they want and can do whatever they wish.
\u2013 I ain’t that deaf yet, Balam, \u2013 calmly smiled my grandpa, squinting his long
eyes mysteriously. \u2013 What you think as \u00abhappy\u00bb doesn’t necessarily mean that for everybody. Once you get all you want and freedom to be as you wish \u2013 life’ll get boring. That is a never satiating thirst.
\u2013 No, Ata, if I have all I wish, I’ll be the happiest person in the world!
\u2013 That feeling fades the moment you touch that, \u2013 he smiled, turning his dark
face to the sun.
\u2013 Why then nomads and those\u2026how you called them, are happy people?
\u2013 Well\u2026a true nomad doesn’t hold on to things. Be it gypsy, dervish or just a
wondering soul, as long as you learn to be free in spirit, no earthly joy can equate to it.
\u2013 I still don’t get it, Ata, \u2013 said I, finding my way through thoughts. \u2013 Being that
‘n-o-m-a-d’ as you say, seems to be a miserable way of life. Lonely and
uncomfortable. Or do they have companions?
Ata laughed with his childlike toothless mouth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u2013 Sometimes, loneliness is the best companion and simplicity is the best
comfort. But to know that you have to find yourself in different companies and enjoy the best of comforts.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The apricot pits On sunny spring day, when my grandfather, whom I dearly called \u00abAta\u00bb, sweptall the apricot pits that were drying on a window sill. \u2013 What are going to do with them, Ata? \u2013 I asked curiously.\u2013 Come along with me, Balam, and I\u2019ll show you, \u2013 said he in his mild manner,smiling […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":1202,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[20,21],"tags":[],"ppma_author":[77],"class_list":["post-1194","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-issue1","category-prose"],"blocksy_meta":[],"yoast_head":"\n