Aunt Ghosh carried several such bags, presumably meant for the children in the neighbourhood. The Ghosh family's home stood third to the left of ours. Their son visited only once or twice a year, being employed elsewhere. Uncle Ghosh, despite being over 70 years old, was eagerly awaited by my father and his colleagues in the evenings, owing to his expertise in playing Bridge. Though being of the age of grandfather, we affectionately referred to him as uncle. His passion for gardening drew people from distant places to witness the array of high-quality roses in his home, the fragrance of which enveloped the entire locality.
Yet, the true allure for the neighbourhood children lay in the four guava trees that adorned the Ghosh garden, bearing fruit throughout the year. These trees, laden with tempting fruits, became a focal point for the children, especially during the summer holidays.
Summer vacations, spanning around 45 days, were our golden opportunity for unbridled play. While adults sought siestas in the scorching afternoons, we gathered at a vacant house, engaging in a plethora of indoor and outdoor games. And when hunger struck, the guava trees beckoned, albeit with a caveat – the fear of Uncle Ghosh.
Uncle Ghosh, tall and heavily built with an ebony complexion, possessed eyes that could strike terror even in dreams. Encountering him unexpectedly, especially in the darkness of night, would send shivers down anyone's spine. Adding to the intimidation was his background as a retired headmaster, whose mere gaze could leave children petrified. His booming voice, audible even at a distant roundabout when summoning his servant, demanded absolute certainty of his absence before attempting any guava-picking expedition.
Late afternoon became the prime time for our covert operations. The rusty hinges of the Iron Gate posed a minor challenge, emitting warning screeches if not oiled regularly. Scaling the 5-foot-tall boundary wall, while quieter, was not without its perils – miscalculations often resulted in bruised thighs and elbows.
Our group typically comprised five or more children, a mix of boys, girls, and a couple of pre-schooler whistle-blowers. The girls, observing from their windows, eagerly awaited inclusion in our adventures, particularly drawn to the allure of unripe guavas. Stealthily, we traversed walls, climbed trees, filled our pockets, fashioned makeshift bags from shirt and frock sleeves, and comfortably perched on branches to enjoy our clandestine feast. However, the potential for mistakes, such as gossiping, quarrelling, or slipping from the branches, always loomed, triggering the awakening of Uncle Ghosh.
Ghosh's initial response was a thunderous shout before he lumbered out of bed, affording us a crucial window to vanish with our guava loot. Yet, there was an incident involving five-year-old Rohit, who, frozen in place during one escapade, miraculously escaped Ghosh's notice. A watch boy recently promoted to guava plunderer, Rohit remained perched on a treetop until the coast was clear.
On another occasion, our luck ran thin. Unbeknownst to us, Uncle Ghosh returned home, and the screeching gate announced his presence. Holding our breath, we clung to the branches as he scanned the surroundings. His gaze must have caught us, and we anxiously watched as he scrutinized the area before heading toward the entrance. To our surprise, he never complained about our guava exploits, even during prolonged sessions at the bridge table with our parents.
In hindsight, we marvelled at the mystery surrounding Uncle Ghosh's silence. Perhaps he knew us by name and gait, eagerly anticipating our guava adventures. It wasn't merely about the thrill of stealing guavas; perhaps, deep down, we sensed his soul, with its fiery red eyes, standing guard over the garden. Aunt Ghosh, as we stood at the gate, revealed a different perspective, assuring me that Uncle Ghosh took immense pleasure in our antics, knowing each of us intimately. As she embraced me, smiling with moistened eyes, she left us with a poignant thought: "For whom do you think he planted those four guava trees?"
Uncle Ghosh's act of planting and nurturing the guava trees for the enjoyment of neighbourhood children, despite his stern exterior, teaches us about the potential unseen impact of generosity. His silent tolerance of the children's guava-picking adventures, even after his passing, suggests that acts of kindness and generosity may leave a lasting and positive influence on others, sometimes beyond our immediate awareness. It emphasizes the idea that even small gestures of goodwill can create a ripple effect, influencing people in ways we may not fully comprehend. After all, Uncle Ghosh was the head of masters.
