I remember a mother standing and watching a blooming flower from afar. I remember a girl. I remember a fragrance. A letter still comes to the house: “I will come this week. You must have made something with a few flowers.”
I remember a path shaded by a spreading flowering tree. I remember a morning. The size of a flower awakened by the caress of a sunbeam. The size of a flower in mold-free dew. The size of a flower that has not yet begun to ripen. The size of a flower in a fruit that has not yet begun to turn red. The flowers bloomed abundantly, turned into fruits, and melted like wax…
The close friend who was amazed by flowers came as a fair-skinned girl speaking English. In the past, to alleviate hunger, she was a dark-skinned girl among the English children, sitting in a clay chair at Kurumban’s dining table. By then, it was late at night.
Shobhana, who had screamed away in the loud afternoon, ran into memory. Her father’s words still resonate: “Don’t talk to those who come to the liquor shop. Don’t go there. Don’t smile if you see them. Then, you must wear the mask of a stoic face.” She has climbed the stairs behind this darkness many times. She has descended quickly.
🚪 That day, when she heard the news of her father’s death, the doors of this house had opened slowly.
Can’t we bear witness?
I remember a saying I heard long ago. Let’s say it with fear and complete respect. We, who are at the end of the world for our loved ones, saw the jackfruit and bowed. The jackfruit, chewed by the one who bites it, was taken up by an insect. It fell quickly to mark an era.
There was a profession called South Indian cinema, which brought to the stage stories that spread from the kitchens of common people. The elders were relieved that they didn’t have to starve during times of financial hardship. I remember my childhood, searching for jackfruit seeds in the sand next to where it was eaten. That was hunger.
It was a thought to say jackfruit was a wonder for an old age, referring to what was said in the past and such gossip. Hearing ‘Shankaran’s voice’ in the darkness. He told a man who had been offered a jackfruit: “I love flies and ants. What do you want from these leaves? I need to know. How can I guess that?!”
🍯 In these houses, they were friends with jackfruit jaggery and jackfruits. In between, women added: “From now on, we will not starve. We don’t have to sit with back pain, neck pain, and knee pain. Jackfruit is life,” they said. And they ate…
Hunger
Searching for jackfruit seeds in the sand next to where it was eaten.
Jaggery
In these houses, they were friends with jackfruit jaggery and jackfruits.
Kitchen
Stories that spread from the kitchens of common people.
Life
“Jackfruit is life,” they said. And they ate…
It is known by names like red-rolled, boiled, and coated, made by taking out the jackfruit in a ruby color, like sweet potato or stir-fried fish. Jackfruit powder was made by crossing land and sea, without getting wet with fresh water, by cutting, drying, and powdering it.
Hundreds of recipes were calculated to make everything from appam powder, puttu powder, and vada powder to halwa. Industry came and went. It overcame the mischief of children and the garden. Small worlds hatched in the kitchen and even inside the eggshell. Once out of the eggshell, this time it follows the journey of the jackfruit.
A time when rain and wind fell unseasonably. This year, there is less jackfruit in the country. Still, the beauty of the forests with record-breaking jackfruit is being cut down by farmers in the markets of hilly villages. People climbed up and down the jackfruit trees in the forest. Later, they all walked on the ground, got wet, and the smell changed in every house.
⚠️ The note leaves the reader with a season of unseasonable rain and wind, less jackfruit in the country, and a changed smell in every house.
