Sipping Rooh Afza

Sipping Rooh Afza

‘It was a wonderfully cooling drink but it also made you feel magical, like you were drinking something secret. Secrecy is steeped in the flavour of the drink, memory-vignettes, and most of all the dreams of burgundy roses blooming in the dusk that followed.’

Rooh Afza is a monthly column of vignettes of the past and present, flavoured with rose petals and some philosophy.

Rooh Afza(noun) Rose syrup. Meaning: that which nourishes the soul.

Rooh Afzah is a non-alcoholic syrup that can be added to water or milk to make a refreshing drink. The main ingredient is rose petals, along with cinnamon, kewra, sandalwood, lemon and orange rind, and other herbs and fruits.

On a Chestnut Tree

By: Yara Zgheib

They both remember that August evening, that walk on a dirt and rock path, in a forest of chestnut trees,

“Well, it was not really a forest,”

says the father, the first - and older and taller - of the story’s narrators.

“A glade rather, thicket at most,”

The difference in height between them is not so dramatic now, but in that story, back then, he had hunched over to hold her hand. He would have had to stoop to his knees to see the trees she had.

“It was a forest!”His daughter’s voice objects.

“And the chestnut trees were giant!”

They had been, from where she stood, at that open and wondrous five-year-old height. As well as the hills soaking in peach light, the sunflowers on their flanks, her father and the quiet joy of that walk on a nondescript weekday.

The air had smelled rich of nut, rain, and wood. Chestnuts carpeting the ground. The trees so daunting, but Papa had said she could climb them if she tried. He had hoisted her on his shoulders, held her up just long enough for her to grab onto the first branch, then forced himself to let go.

He had stood guard silently as she climbed higher and higher, unafraid. He must have been terrified, from where he stood at that life-weary parent’s height. From the top,

“ Papa, I still wish you could have seen it “The view had been spectacular. He smiles:

“I know it well. I used to come here with your grandfather.”

She had stuffed her pockets with“hundreds of chestnuts!”

the oven. Thirty minutes later, the house had smelled of chestnuts and the promise of October. Papa had cracked and peeled them for her, her sister, her mother.

Dinner had followed and it had been grand: chicken nuggets and fries, her favourite. After those, a bowl of ice cream with sprinkles, and some cartoons before bed!

“Do you remember that afternoon?”

asks the former five-year-old, she and her father on the same walk, years later, in the same forest. This time around, though, pushing a stroller among trees that seem smaller, sparser. The two of them take turns hunching over to peer at the sleeping face.

“Of course I remember,”

says the father, his finger and heart captive in a little fist. He does not fill the gaps in that memory she had been too young to see.

Like the fear that had frozen his chest as he watched her climb up the tree. That had almost stopped him from letting her go. That he still had to conceal.

Like the fact that the chestnuts she had picked had been green. That they had tried to roast them, nonetheless. A poor decision; they had smoked up the oven. The kitchen had stunk for days. That he had snuck out of the house to buy more while her mother distracted her with cartoons and ice cream – two impossibly rare treats on a weekday.

He had only bought a few - chestnuts were costly. His wife and he had given them all to their daughters. Dinner had been a microwave meal.

More cartoons, ice cream. A story.“How about the time grandfather and I …”

He looks at his daughter cradle her daughter. One day, she too will climb trees, and see the world from that sunkissed top and never fear the dark or gravity. He recalls a time when everything had seemed giant and wondrous to him too. In a forest of chestnut trees with his father, one mild August evening go.