Tuesday, 22 November 2016

THUNDERING TAMARIND!

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!

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