Lemar-Aftaab July - Sept. 1997 - Arts - Short Stories - "An Old Garden"

"An Old Garden"

By Farhad Azad

Twenty years have passed, but I still remember that summer afternoon in Kabul...

The old, wooden door was open. I walked in to my grandfather’s garden. The entrance walk way was laid with light ivory mountain stone. The garden was a large square yard divided into four sections. A huge pomegranate tree was in the middle. One each side of the pomegranate tree was a small clear pool of water surrounded by clay flower pots that contained maroon colored geraniums. One side of the four sections had yellow, red, and white rose bushes. On the other side of the garden, there was a cherry tree and an apple tree which was filled with yellow apples. At the opposite corner was a small vineyard which included white, scarlet, and purple grapes. And on the last corner was a bright flower bed packed with snapdragons, carnations, black-eyed susans, purple cornflowers, dellailas, and daylilies. Like a little boy in a candy store, I was mesmerized by the distinct colors.

I heard footsteps. My grandfather, a tall man with broad shoulders and a gray mustache, wearing his black pajamas entered the garden.

He smiled at me and said in his deep voice, “Salaam, salaam, where have you been?”

I smiled back and told him, “I have been at school.”

He replied, “You havebeen at school for weeks without a break?”

I answered, “No, sir, I was rather busy with school work.”

He looked at me and said, “Too busy to see your old grandfather?”

I put my head down, and knew he was right. I hadn'’t seen him in weeks. When I was a little boy, I would spend my days in his garden, but now I have been so busy with school. My family had moved to the Wazir Akbar Khan district in Kabul; it was far away from my grandfather’s house in the old city, and we didn’t get a chance to visit him regularly.

He looked at me again with his dark green eyes, laid his hand on my shoulder, and said, “I understand. Lets have some tea.”

I sat down on a red Mazari rug under the pomegranate tree. I looked up and saw a tiny bird's nest. My grandfather never picked the pomegranates. He cherished the blossoms in the spring, he used the shade in the summer heat, and he ate the fruit in late summer when it fell to the ground or sometimes in the pool of water.

My grandfather’s father was a rug merchant. As a young man, my grandfather took his father’s trade, andtraveled with him to many parts of Afghanistan but mostly to the cities of Mazar Sharif, Kandahar, and Herat. Like his father, he had a keen interest in gardens. His father had a house in the outskirts of the Kabul which had four different gardens. At the age of 20, my grandfather married and moved into the city and started his business of selling rugs and furniture. In 1934 at the age of 23, he bought the old two story house.

His passion for gardens never stopped. He would spend hours in his garden. He only hired professional gardeners to put in new trees or cross breed flowers. On his trips to different cities he collected distinct plants and trees. The pomegranate tree in the yard was a gift from a friend in Kandahar. The white seedless grapes came from a small vineyard in the town of Karzi in the province of Herat. He brought back daylilys bulbs from the city of Herat. The purple grapes that grew wild on the walls came from Chahrkar, and the yellow apple tree came from a village near the city of Maimana and the cherry tree from Paghman. The ivory stone that covered the walkway by the door and the clear water pools came from a mountain close to the city of Ghazni. Altogether, his garden was a composition of small pieces of Afghanistan.

My relatives had moved to the new parts of Kabul, but my grandfather refused to move. He loved his garden too much to give it up. He even named it Baagh-e Ziba (The Garden of Beauty). After my grandmother passed away ten years ago, my grandfather grieved , but it was his garden that kept him going. Now he lived by himself in the old house and with his beloved garden.

He came back with the tea and some candy. We drank tea and relaxed under the tree. He asked how my mom and dad were. I told him that they were always arguing and never stopped. My grandfather looked melancholy and told me not to worry. He went on to say my mom - his daughter - and my dad were never meant to be together. He told me that it was all a mistake. He then looked at me with teary eyes and said, “This world leaves us in despair and pain, but it is the beauty that we must look upon to survive.”

The “beauty” that he talked about was his garden. I knew that his life was not always joyful. He had rough times, but it was the garden he loved that made him endure the pitfalls of life.

We sipped some more tea, and I heard someone playing the rubab next door. He smiled and said that the new next door neighbors where from Logar and one of their sons played the rubab. I heard the trick strings of the rubab being plucked. I closed my eyes and let the music flow within me.

I heard my grandfather whisper to himself, “Oh this garden of mine, how kind you have been to this old heart of mine...”