by MANREET SODHI SOMESHWAR
The ruby red seeds of the pomegranate gleamed invitingly as I coaxed my 7-year-old daughter to eat the fruit. Loath to do any task without being regaled with an accompanying narrative, she asked me to retell the story of how as a child I would steal pomegranates from a neighbor’s garden and cause trouble. Despite several retellings, the story continues to exercise a hold on her, in part because it allows her a peek at the child now obfuscated by her mother’s adult facade.
The neighbor’s house was across from ours, separated by a narrow brick road into which branches of pomegranate trees spilled from the enclosed garden. In summer, after hours of sweaty play, there was pleasure in crumpling in the verdant shade, gossiping as we ate the plucked fruit. It never occurred to us that the pomegranate didn’t belong to us and that, technically, we were stealing.
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(Submitted by reader)