Today I tasted grapes.
As I dug my 32 fangs into their titillating transparent skins, the accompanying crunching sound challenged the wisdom of four of those fangs.
Grapes with seeds!
Yes, seeds.
Not just any small, miniscule, irrelevant, forgivable errors of nature.
But big enough to make me hunt for my favourite cutlery.
The nitpicking toothpick.
This was definitely not happening to me.
I remember that grapes weren’t supposed to have seeds.
In fact, grapes and bananas were bosom buddies for the same reason.
The books said so.
The teachers said so.
And so did the non-vegetarians.
Grapes were supposed to be the exact existential opposite of watermelons.
Seedless V/s Seedy
Small V/s Big
Green V/s …ok fine!
Grapes were effortless to enjoy.
Pop in. But nothing to pop out.
No need for knives, peelers, plates or a dustbin.
Grapes taught me to swallow without spitting.
To eat without worrying about what lies beneath.
Each time I would nurture the fear of the dark, I would repeat to myself:
Ghosts are like grape seeds.
They don’t exist.
And that fact would reassure me to go to the loo in the night.
Alone.
And now, it’s all gone.
The grape has been raped.
Or in other words, a case of sour grapes.
What else will I unlearn today?
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