The Smile of the Pomegranate Tree

I only had one grandmother.

Of course everyone has two grandmothers, but I only remember my father’s mother. She was a very nice, tall, handsome Kabuli woman with big brown eyes, a white face, and a small veil around her neck. I always remember her with her small blue bag full of pomegranates for me.

She loved me very much, and when she came to our house, she stopped at the door to point out that she had not come without a gift. The pomegranates were from one of her trees, but when we went to visit her, she wouldn’t let us have even one small pomegranate.

On the tree, the pomegranates looked like lovely girls wearing red dresses. I was in love with them. I couldn’t count to more than ten at that time, as I was only four years old and not at school. I had only learned to count with my father, and he taught me to count up to ten. Sometimes I could do it properly, but sometimes I missed and counted wrong, jumping around from one to three to seven.

Although my grandma always promised to bring us pomegranates, I loved to have them from the tree and not from her blue bag. When I asked to have one, her response was, “They are raw now. You will be sick. When I bring it to your home it will be ready to eat!” Yet this wasn’t a good enough reason for me. One day, when my grandma was busy cooking for us in the kitchen, I decided to have a pomegranate from the tree. I planned how to get one—only one, but the biggest one! I couldn’t get to it. I wished to be tall enough to get them with my hands. There was a yellow cat with shiny eyes and thick fur climbing the tree, and I asked her: “Please, when you climb, bring me a pomegranate—the biggest one.” It didn’t work.

While I thought of a plan, I found the cat’s house. She had four lovely mewing kittens. I thought that the kittens were starving and that the mother was climbing the tree to bring them pomegranates. I searched here and there and found some stones and started to throw stones at the tree. I thought that if the pomegranates fell down, the cat and I could share them. Several pomegranates fell down, and I was happy for that. I ran to get them, watching the highest part of the tree to see if more were falling. I thought of calling the cat and sharing them with her. Suddenly, I slipped and fell into a well full of water. The well was 35 meters deep and didn’t have a cap. I felt the cold water, and nothing else, and when I opened my eyes, I was at the hospital. Mom, Dad, and Grandma were with me.

I had broken my hand and had two bloody cuts on my head. When I opened my eyes, my grandmother told me what had happened and then she advised me to be more careful in the future. She told me that when she came to get water from the well for lunch, she saw me. If she hadn’t come, I would have died.

When my grandma saw the stones, she thought I had been throwing them at the cat, and lectured me, “My child, cats are sweet and kind, never throw stones at them.” I told her the story about how I thought the kittens were starving and I wanted to help them. Later, when I was home again, Grandma put four pomegranates on a plate. She said, “Now two are for you and two are for the cat.” I was angry with her, and didn’t eat them. I told her, “You are jealous. When I get old, I will buy pomegranates for the cat myself!” And my kind grandma laughed.

Two years later, Grandma died. I cried for her, and for her pomegranates; on that night, I slept under the pomegranate tree. After her death, no one brought me anything. There was no one to give me money, no one to give me sweets from her pocket, no one to hug me and kiss me. Years passed. During the war, Grandma’s house was destroyed by rockets. The only thing that remained safe was the pomegranate tree.

The tree still bears pomegranates, but I no longer look for the biggest one. I miss my grandma. I love all grandmothers of the world, and I can imagine how sweet it is to be a grandma. Whether they are kind or angry, I love and respect them. I think those who have grandmothers are lucky. During the most difficult times in my life or simply when I’m bored, the only one I want to be with is my grandmother, to kiss me, to smile at me, to give me old, torn money from her pocket, to encourage me, to hate me sometimes for my wrongdoings. I miss my grandma’s hug. It was the kindest, warmest hug.

I never met my mom’s mother. My mom often cries for her, and says she was a wonderful mother. Sometimes, when my mom gets angry at me or criticizes me, I don’t blame her—I only blame her mother. I don’t know why, but when my mother says, “I am the daughter of a wonderful mom,” I don’t believe her, perhaps because I never knew that grandmother.

Mom sometimes talks about her own grandma, a simple Afghan lady who stayed at home for years and years. She says that when she came to Kabul from the provinces and saw hair oil in a shop, she went and asked the shopkeeper, “How much is the Coca Cola?”

She thought it was an honor if you went to the doctor often. It made you look important to your family members. She complained of many illnesses, and expected to be healthy without taking any medication—what was important was the visit to the doctor!

I trust a grandmother’s love more than a man’s love. Men always talk about love when they want a woman and when they want to be happy, but love from a grandmother is an evergreen love.

I always think about life passing and changing. Grandmothers are those who were once children, then they became young adults, got married, had their own children, and then the new generation became theirs. In our lives, we watch our past, then we watch the future and find ourselves becoming grandmothers. For grandmothers, there is no fear anymore. They’re no longer afraid of love ending, or afraid of a husband’s second wife, or of being ugly, fat or thin. They enjoy life free of problems. I think grandmothers are in this world to watch success—the success of a new generation.

To be honest, I am very hopeful for the future and I very much look forward to being a grandmother one day.

The pomegranate tree and the gift from my kind grandmother inspired me to think, to feel, and to understand the world, and it inspired me to write:

Smile

Smile

Always smile at life’s pains.

Enjoy

Enjoy

By Roya