Sampige: Fragrant Memories

Some time ago, I attended a colleague’s housewarming ceremony. As I explored their new home, my eyes were drawn to a Sampige (Magnolia) tree leaning gracefully towards the balcony. The sight of it filled me with excitement as waves of cherished memories washed over me. Noticing the longing on my face, my host plucked a few of the ‘Kenda Sampige’ (reddish-orange magnolia also known as Simhachala Sampige as it grows close to the region near Vishakhapatnam), for me and I fondly carried them home. As I travelled back, I remembered my aunt’s place in Vizag and her buying the flowers from a flower vendor for her morning prayers. Sometimes, she would string few for me to wear in my hair. I was reminded not only of my aunt but also of the many things that we had shared. My paternal aunt, the youngest of my father’s siblings, lived with us and at that time I was probably a 5-year girl. She lived with us till I was about 12 years old. My memories about what she was studying or doing are as of now faint, but I do remember that she was enrolled in some college and later was working as a teacher. I recollect the death of her friend and how it had shaken her and my mother consoling and helping her to face the situation. Another memory I have is of yet another friend of hers who would visit us often with her husband. More than these memories I remember her spending the evening with my brother and me and helping us with our homework. It may have been a childhood fantasy, but I also remember her fondness for my brother and doting on him. I also recollect that she had chocolates and sweets for him all the time. Many a time she would take him on outings & leave me at home. For a long time, I nurtured a dislike towards her and was glad when she was married. Many years later, when I was in Bangalore and doing my under-graduation, her stays in summer with her son and artist husband changed this dislike. My uncle’s creativity rolled around making us forget the summer heat and many days my sibling and my cousins-invariably summers in my house was teeming with guests: my maternal aunts and their kids and a distant cousin and their children–spent hours listening to his enacting bits of his plays that we was writing and the various music he would create using various sounds at home. I particularly remember his recording the sound of water running when the flush in the toilet was activated, and his capturing the sound of the stand fan when it was switched on. He would record many of our Kannada folk songs and use the melody for his plays background music. My aunt’s son’s interest and fondness for animals went very well with me as I just loved animals. Once my father went to work, the house became alive with various games, food preparation, music, laughter, and cheerfulness. I vividly recall my mother and her presence all around in the house-her efficiently finishing cooking for so many at home, her joining us for the indoor games that we were playing, her songs and her lively chatter. It was indeed a happy time of life that I miss so very much. My uncle gave me his painting when I married and today it has the pride of place in my home. Anyway, the ‘Kenda Sampige’ flooded me with memories of my aunt and uncle. Later, whenever I visited Vizag, I remember the flowers and the endearing smiles, warmth, and love that my uncle and aunt enveloped me in. I brought home the flowers and placed them in a bowl of water. For the next two days, the flowers permeated all over my living room. The scent brought in reminiscences of my grandparents’ home in Tumkur. Flooded with memories, I called my uncle only to find out that the tree was cut down as it had become old, and the trunk had split. My uncle sent me pictures of the flower that he had taken before the tree was cut down and also mentioned that it had been planted when my mother was born. The Sampige tree in my grandparents’ home had grown all over the house and every part of the open terrace had its pervading smell. Whenever I was in my grandparents’ house, I just loved sitting in the small passage opening to the kitchen watching ajji (tatha had died when I was very young) cooking and the tree’s gnarled trunks and soothing shade along with the fragrance. There were times when I would lounge in the lower branches of the tree with a book. The sampige tree was part of my treasured archive and I felt a special bond whenever I read the poems: Toru Dutt’s ‘The Casuarina Tree’ or Kamala Das’s ‘My Grandmother’s House’ or Margaret Barbalet’s ‘My Grandfather’s House’ or Ramanujam’s ‘Small Scale Reflections on a Great House.’ I am once again that young girl flitting under the tree wrapped in the warm core and strong arms of my grandmother. The vibrancy of my mother and the laughter and chatter of those pleasant carefree times caress and embrace me. The Sampige tree may not be there for me today to wrap me and enfold me in its life history but the number of memories that it has lit, kindled and sparkled in my mind suffices to fill me with joy and to warmly hug the absences and silences of the loved ones that are no more with me.