Thunderstorms and thundershowers are traditional this time
of year, but we’ve touched mid April without sign of either. What instead has
been thundering with a vengeance over and around the area about my residence, are
pods of tamarind, introducing me to my first experience of such a phenomenon, as
I’ve never having lived in such proximity to a tamarind tree before.
Aged over a hundred perhaps, this tree towers protectively
in majesty over my cottage situated within the compound of a Senior Citizens Home
at Bengaluru. Branches spread across my roof and that of my twin cottage to the
left, providing shade and placidity in the yard by the side, while the trunk
offers companionship to my scores of plants that lie in the bed and the pots that
surround it.
Entirely through February and March, tamarind thundered onto
my roof like it was pouring rain cum pelting hail stones, such was the decibel
levels of thuds, at times shaking me with a scare. The tamarind ‘fall’ is
indeed interesting in the manner of its universal appeal. I’ve never seen how magnetically
people from varying walks of life pursue it with the innocence of a childhood
memory never forgotten. Nonagenarians resident here scoop it up with the same
glint in their eye and saliva on their tongue, as do freshers to the taste. And
not to forget the ‘tween decade types who cannot resist peeling off of the
crisp shell that reveals the alluring splendor of the sour green or the sweet
tangy ‘chenk’ tamarind depending how far
into the season they’ve stumbled on the loot.
Mid April, the produce was sold to a veteran Muslim tamarind
dealer, obviously an expert at the art of stripping the tree bare of every pod,
who involved his family in sorting, cleaning and packing the booty into sacks.
He and a helper scrambled up the tree and onto my roof, detached the bounty
with long poles attached to which were curved knives, then descended to dart between
my precious house plants to pick out the dropped fruit from among stems and
leaves, while I kept ‘cavey’ with heart in mouth , my arthritic legs not able
to keep pace with their agility, nor my eyes capable of following their
offspring appear here there and everywhere viz. at my windows, doors, my
portico full of collector’s odds’n’ends, with their sundry requests for a broom,
a stool and what have you, to enable their endeavours.
They spent the day sorting tamarind pods after the picking.
I came out to chat awhile through the processes, requested some photo ops and gave
the young granddaughter a chance to click some pics, thrilling her to bits. Heartening
to know the young girl was in school, assisting only on holidays.
Folks like these work in tandem, similar to a conveyor belt,
but with such an admirable human dimension. I observed no arguments, no
irritability. If any, it surfaced occasionally from my side. Kudos to our labourers
who search for their daily bread, yet have no grumbles.
Our tamarind tree has since fallen silent, bare of its fruit
till the next year, its abundance of delicate leaves having also withered and
blown away in the dry summer heat.
In their place thankfully, a fresh new burst of life has
emerged in the light green leaves sprouting this season!
