Nurungukal…

    Of all the fruit bearing trees I have a special affinity towards the mango tree, especially a granny. Because whenever I come across a fairly old mango tree, unknowingly mind wanders into a past, which is now blurred and hard to draw contours. There was once upon a time one such tree, a few feet south of our naalukettu. Many a rendezvous, clandestine or otherwise had taken place under its cover. Many a drama had been enacted under its shade. Not to speak of the fights and village games. The swing descending from its sturdy branches had taken many a pair to soar the heights of rhythm and love, while the fairy like jezebel butterflies probe for honey from the fathoms of the slender, violet flowers of the parasite plants ithikkanni harboring on its branches. It would remind me about oonhaal [swing] the heart rendering love story of the novelist vilasini [ jezebel ].

       Although such nostalgic visuals appear in my mind when I see a mango tree, the one that still persists in me is the care and caution our mother used to take while preparing a mango pickle. It’s a long procedure. There are some stipulated specifications to be complied with. Otherwise the end product will fail to pass the mark. There is an unwritten recipe. The details of which is transferred from mouth to mouth, generation to the other, or by close observation, most probably the later. There are certain specific varieties of mango suitable for preparing different types of pickles, from kadumanga to vadamanga or uppumanga and each have its own entity and purpose to claim. While kadumanga can kindle your taste buds to swallow yet another handful of rice, uppumanga can reactivate them when you are convalescing and supplement your sodium level. Similarly vadamanga squeezed with a little curd could catalyze and help digestion.

         Mother’s search starts at the very beginning of the flowering season usually, early February, followed by a daily appraisal of the fruit development. Many a season I had experienced her despair when the flowers whither and fail to set fruits due to the increase in atmospheric temperature preceding heavy rain bearing summer clouds. When once the fruits are ready, the entire house is in a frenzy, plucking, grading, washing, mixing etc. etc. The curtain would be down only after the filled up earthen jars are secured in a dark corner of our store room kalavara or vadekkera.

      But I happened to witness a deferent feel in my wife’s house. Her eldest sister and her mother’s younger sister were the exponents of the highest order of preparing mango pickle recipes. When our mother was content with a jar or two for the season, this duo had insurmountable desire for hoarding jars and jars of kadumanga each year. They derived a hidden pleasure in their collection piled up in the dark chambers of their wooden bins (pathayam ) like blended scotch whisky preservations for years and years. To be frank theirs are the best I have tasted, although mother’s excelled in certain parameters.

        As the old performers had vacated the stage a few years ago, fresh hands in the family are fervently trying to step into their shoes. My wife is one among them. She is slowly and steadily proving to be a worthy successor to the bygones. But alas this year none of our trees are bearing fruits. May be due to the effect of global warming, an alibi commonly heard in our sitting rooms.

       Whenever I visit my native place and retrace the paths we used to tread, in our school days, my heart miss one or two beats as I cross the spot where the granny tree was majestically posing once upon a time.  The only earthly one which had been volunteered to accompany our mother to her heavenly abode….