Indian Royalty

They look like olives.

Black, oblong, plump. "Pop them in whole! They have a wonderful taste!" They're called faalsay. Java plums. Even their name is trying to convince me to have a taste. Although everyone has made some secret vow to make sure that I have at least one, I've barely given them a second look. And no, I don't crave sour, succulent, digestive delicacies that come packaged like miniature bombs. I've only been here a week, and I feel like all I've done since I got off the plane is eat. I haven't been eating normal daal chaawal either. No. I've sampled all sorts of fruits, sweet pastries called mithais, and even some unusual vegetables. I've had enough, but I know there is no end to this tasteless gluttony.

"Vikki, eat one bite of the jack fruit. It's not only good for the stomach but also tastes amazing the way I have prepared it. Try it beta, you will like it I'm sure."

The culture at Diwan House is to express hospitality by simply insisting that guests, family members, newcomers, beggars, and even stray dogs eat that which has been grown, bought, and/or cooked by its ex-royalty residents. Yes, we are descendants of the family of a ruined, Indian feudal lord. Mind you, feudalism has long left the subcontinent, but the Diwans wouldn't know it.

"Aray! Vikram you haven't even had your second kachaurdi and you're done?! Bhaiyah what do you feed him in America? You should have left him here for a few years, and I would have taught him how to eat like a Diwan!"

My dad is one of 12 ex-royal children (seven sons, five daughters), born somewhere between the 4th son and the 3rd daughter. They have all inherited royal land, homes, jewelry, and every last bit of feudal arrogance. Even my father, who left India to pursue a career in journalism, still has a certain air of impatience and a general frown of disapproval permanently mounted on his otherwise nonchalant face.

"Mannu Bhai pass Vikram the heeng achaar (asafoetida pickle). He must have it with his lentils and rice."

I live in Miami with my parents; I am their only heir. We travel to the small and dusty town of Merut once every few years. Each time we visit, aunts and uncles inquire about life in the modern world and, without waiting for an answer, proceed by recapitulating the grandiose events that they have been experiencing while we were away. Tales of family politics, weddings, births, and deaths are endlessly recounted. And nestled in among such news are memories of old. How life used to be in the days when Paapa was still known as Raja sahab. The status and the glamor of those days remains entangled among the cobwebs on the walls and the furniture. They are nothing but stubborn memories, which now rest among old photos and paraphernalia as dust, refusing to be cleaned. They cling desperately to their ex-royal owners, who in turn cling to them.

"Vikki, you must have one slice of mango. At least one."

The non-feudal years have been hard on this family. Those of my aunts and uncles who could escape and make a living independent of their past (four including my dad) have learned to live as members of the mere working class. No lavish titles are appended to their names, and although this makes them feel rather naked, my dad and his siblings would never admit it. The rest of my aunts and uncles live off of their inherited land and it's produce. They own somewhat equal shares in land, but minor squabbles have arisen between one or two heirs regarding such matters.

"This is Sannata Vikram. This was your favorite drink as a child. I made it for you all the time and you would drink it like a true desi! Don't tell me you're full already, not without a drink of this first!"

When they aren't subpoenaing each other, my ex-royal aunts and uncles busy themselves in their respective homes, meticulously governing their worthless servants. Most have reached a mature, post-ripe age, and are now religiously preparing themselves for a silent departure into another life. They may be physically slow, but mentally they can take on seven generations worth of intellect. It always saddened me to see such an intelligent bunch, wasting away amidst the issues of what could be the Indian lower class. But it was an ill wind that changed their lives. They were snatched before their prime, and left to grow and prosper without rain and shine. And now even as their skin wrinkles, and their bones ache, they claim to be rajas and ranis. Perhaps in their own homes, they live out the destinies which blood alone could not fulfill for them.

"Beta, have some faalsay. They are from that tree in our backyard. They don't look special but they pack quite a punch!"

Hundreds of them lie insignificantly on the floor of Kakaji's rooftop. Up here only the crows seem to show any interest in them. It must have been the unexpectedly-early monsoon that shook so many promising individuals into an early downfall. Most seem to have rotted, but some lay ripe, displaying an exquisite sense of survival. They aren't from a different tree, they aren't any younger or stronger then their shriveled counterparts. But somehow they have lasted thus far. They are rare, seasonal fruits; far more potent than their size and appearance actually let on. I know I won't eat them. But it intrigues me, nonetheless, how boastfully they arrive every season, reminding me that they are still alive as long as the tree from which they fall lives.