We were just walking down the street when an elderly lady handed my dad a big, wide basket full of passion fruit. The bowl was lined with newspaper and filled to the brim. She had run out of her house as we were passing by and she beamed when my dad accepted her present. We were in Sri Lanka. I was eight. According to mom, who translated the transaction for me, the old woman had known my grandfather. The passion fruit were from her tree. They were her gift to my grandfather’s eldest son to welcome him back to the island after so many years.