Tamboola’s : Sweet Remembrances

 

A lone cuckoo’s call stirs memories
of my grandparents,
of the betel caddy that sits empty now,
the echoes of childhood alive in my mind.

I remember the jasmine arbor,
sunlight filtering through green leaves,
our ancestral home, where my grandfather’s eyes
gleamed with gentle humor,
crimson on his lips from betel’s stain.

In the kitchen,
my grandmother’s hands worked the mortar and pestle,
a steady rhythm—
betel nuts cracked and sliced with the antler-handled knife,
the leaf carefully folded,
lime applied with practiced grace.

Each motion was art—
my fingers too learned the ritual:
the snap of the leaf,
lime’s smooth burn,
the fragrance of betel
weaving through the room.

Beyond the kitchen,
Grandfather in his easy chair,
his laughter ringing out as he spat crimson
into the brass spittoon—
its soft chime another song of memory.

After meals, we gathered,
the taste of betel tying us together,
the village crossroads,
the country store’s lantern glow,
where friendships were sealed
with a shared quid of betel.

One afternoon,
I slipped by the pond, dizzy from betel’s spell.
My cousin’s hand pulled me from the water,
her smile forever etched in my heart—
she too, gone now,
a memory bright in the quiet night.

The betel caddy—
empty today,
but full of echoes.
It holds the comfort of home,
the love of my grandparents,
and the taste of a childhood
that time cannot steal.