Saturday, July 28, 2012

Passionate about passiflora (or just markisa)

Once upon a time, there was a little girl who thought herself possessing just a a little more than imagination than was the usual allocation for girls her age.

She danced amongst fairies, leaped with brownies, and hid with elves among branches of the cherry tree behind her mother's house. If she could have climbed the starfruit tree or the big caramai (otherwise known as Phyllantus Acidus or else West India gooseberry) tree at her grandmother's house, she would have without hesitation. Unfortunately what her mind wanted to do, her physical prowess disallowed. She had to content herself listening, when she was at her grandmother's, not without longing, to the free spirits giggling behind the leaves and branches of those trees from the sturdy safety of her grandmother's balcony. The branches called to her. They were just out of reach even if she stretched really really far.

One day, she heard of a fruit called markisa, and learned almost at the same time, it's other name, passionfruit. She imagined, a few moments later, how Markisa would be like, in girl-form. She would have flaming orange runaway curly hair, millions of freckles across her nose bridge and she would laugh often and easily. She did everything with an intensity that was captivating. She was scary angry when she got mad. She would collapse into a heap in tears when sad. Her heart would break more often than the average person, at things that caused only mild curiosity in most. Markisa would make a very good companion and she would definitely be most exciting to be around.

She and Markisa became fast friends. They played, fought, argued and supported each other through everything. Weeks became months became years. Then she became busy with 'whatever'. And had less and less time to spend with Markisa. Markisa being Markisa, became violently upset and not a little hurt. She screamed. She yelled. To the no avail. The girl had gotten busy with 'everything else'. So Markisa stopped visiting the little girl, who was not so little anymore. The little not-so-little girl did not notice that Markisa no longer came around. The years turned into decades. Markisa was forgotten.

Recently, she met Markisa again. For real. Markisa is round and red. She has lots of freckles, not millions but enough. The once upon a time little girl, smiled. She recognised Markisa from that time and said hi. Markisa said hi back. And they became friends again.

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