Sugarcane, Shikanji, and Goodbyes

A Memoir of a Childhood Journey

There are journeys that take you across miles, and there are those that take you inward—toward memory, meaning, and the quiet truths of life. I was eight when one such journey began, sparked by a telegram and carried on the wheels of a bus, a bicycle, and an ekka.

     The Telegram and the Journey

I was eight when the telegram arrived. My mother held it with trembling hands, her face clouded with worry. When my father came home, he read it aloud, my grandfather in Allahabad was gravely ill. We needed to go. Bags were packed quickly, and the next morning we boarded a bus from Nagpur. Fourteen hours of winding roads and dusty windows later, we reached Jasra, my father’s hometown, just outside Allahabad.

We stayed the night, then continued toward my mother’s village. At the edge of the village, my mama ji, her brother, was waiting with a bicycle. No car, no cart, just a humble cycle and a warm smile. We loaded what we could onto it and walked the rest of the way. When we reached the house, my mother saw her own mother and broke down in tears. I didn’t understand why, wasn’t this a happy reunion? But later I realized: it was grief, not joy. Her father was dying.

    The Farm and the Fields
A few days into our stay, my grandmother took us children to visit the family farm. It was a short walk from the house, through narrow paths lined with neem trees and marigold bushes. The fields stretched out like a green quilt, sugarcane swaying in the breeze, chickpea plants low and leafy. She showed us how to pluck tender chickpea leaves and handed us small stalks of sugarcane to chew. The sun was warm, the earth smelled sweet, and everything felt alive. That afternoon, we sat under a tree and munched on spicy chickpea leaf fritters she had packed for us. It was simple, but magical.

    Puffed Rice and Village Bonds
The next morning, Mama ji took us to a nearby spot where puffed rice was made. A large metal vessel sat over an open fire, and with each toss, the rice popped and danced. We bought a bag and returned home, mixing it with chopped onions, tomatoes, and fresh chopped coriander to make a bhel, the popular street side snack in India. We shared it with neighbors who dropped by unannounced, always welcome.

Village life was simple, but full of hard work. People helped one another, shared meals, stories, and sorrows. Mama ji didn’t own the farm land, he sold children’s clothes from home. Villagers came to browse, stayed for tea or shikanji (freshly made lemonade), and chatted about the day’s labor or the latest news. I watched quietly, feeling joy as children’s faces lit up with new clothes. Some glanced at me, the city boy in a buttoned shirt and neatly combed hair. A few approached shyly, curious, before being called back to chores.

    The Doctor’s Visit and the Final Days
One day, the village doctor came to examine my grandfather. His compounder followed, dispensing medicines and scribbling notes. The doctor’s face grew grim. He stepped outside and spoke to the elders, the end was near. Comfort, not cure, was all they could offer.

Though I didn’t grasp every word, I understood enough. My grandfather was slipping away. That was why we had come. Weeks passed. My grandfather held on, but his condition didn’t improve. My mother spoke to Mama ji, it was time to return. School awaited, and the older siblings at home needed her. Mama found an ekka to take us to the city’s edge, then an auto rickshaw to Jasra. From there, we traveled to the bus station and began our journey back to Nagpur.

    The Telegram That Followed
Back home, life resumed. A week later, another telegram arrived. My grandfather had passed away. My parents left for the village alone, leaving us with my aunt. I cried quietly, remembering his frail body, his stories, his gentle voice. I consoled myself with one thought, I had met him in his final days. That visit changed me. It taught me how fragile life is. How community, kindness, and shared moments matter more than anything. In the village, I saw how people lived with purpose, with grace. And I carry that lesson still, to live simply, love deeply, and never take time for granted.