By Devraj Singh Kalsi
Returning from school, dumping my school bag on the sofa, and rushing out to climb the litchi tree in the garden without changing out of my school uniform, was an everyday affair during the summer. The scenes flash in a carousel of slides before my eyes whenever I purchase a bunch of litchis from local fruit vendors. I cannot resist regaling them with lively tales of my adventures and expeditions during those fruit-bearing seasons that remain refreshing and fresh even after decades.
While holding and admiring the colour and texture of litchis, I am prone to draw comparisons, celebrating the genetic superiority of the litchi tree from my past. Succulent nostalgia is inevitable as the litchis in my patch were rich in pulp, bereft of white worms creeping out during the peel-off process.
Paying for the leaves and the litchis makes me lose my cool. The fruit vendors contend they do not sell litchis without leaves as their profit margin goes south. The delicate fruit has a low shelf life, which makes it worse for them. Keeping quiet, I pull off one litchi from the dangling bunch and peel it off in a single roll to show my expertise.
I remember the long bamboo stick I used to twist the neck of a thick bunch to pull it in my direction, and the litchis fell on the white plastic sheet spread wide on the ground. I collected them all in a plastic tumbler and took them inside, inviting my parents to join me in the litchi feast. We sat on the red cemented floor and started peeling in silence. Although I never counted how many kilos I consumed, I am sure I gobbled up almost half the quantity within an hour. My parents never stopped me from having as much as I liked. Litchi was the first fruit that established my true love for fruits. I boasted in front of friends regarding my litchi consumption capacity. Some of them believed it, and some said it was untrue. Those who came over were surprised I was enjoying the bounty while they could only imagine such a royal privilege.
People slot litchi based on region. For me, the litchi of my ancestral house in Bengal was the best variant though I never tried to find its origin or roots so long as it stood there. All that mattered was the bountiful harvest every year, and we distributed it in the neighbourhood. The leaves often crossed borders, and the branches spread out in several directions. The neighbours were kind enough to tolerate the intrusion and the extra chore of cleaning the fallen leaves as they loved getting bagfuls of litchis from us every season. They never complained, and we never objected if they plucked litchis from the branches spread out in their area across the boundary wall. The fruit cemented friendly ties as visitors and guests were gifted baskets full of litchis. We never sold the litchi fruit but distributed it as tokens of friendship.
Making sacrifices for education is quite common. In my case, the litchi tree made the ultimate sacrifice. Axed to construct a study room for me. Today, when I have to buy litchis, I feel the curse of the litchi tree has befallen me. A study room built on the grave of a litchi tree is how it plays out in my mind. The episode haunts me. The insensitive axe that killed it now frightens me like the rising prices of the litchi fruit, reminding me of the best things I enjoyed for free.
Another tree that played a stellar role in my early years was the mango tree planted on the day I was born. My father was in the process of planting the sapling when the news of my arrival reached him. It was nurtured well, like me, as if we were twins. He ensured the tree grew up well in the environment and the roots went deep, just as he wanted the cultural roots and the roots of decent upbringing to grow deeper in me.
While mine was a doubtful case, the tree seemed happy in its place and grew up strong and tall very fast. During my childhood years, I sat beneath the cool shade and enjoyed the breeze. It started bearing fruit early, and my parents praised its qualities more than mine. Before the fruit-bearing season, I drew water from the hand pump and watered it. But I was told I should water it throughout the year. A good deed should not be limited to a selfish motive. To enjoy good fruit, I must nurture it around the year. Yes, the lesson was profound. The mango tree enabled me to catch it early in life. Whatever you do, work to achieve the goal with consistent efforts.
The pressure to be result-driven was on me. It also generated a streak of jealousy. I did want to taste the home-grown mangoes and preferred the ones from the bazaar. When asked why I avoided the mango tree, I could not explain anything. But I began to accept its fruit with expressions that still did not indicate full approval. My critical views on the taste factor were forthcoming now and then. The mango tree perhaps heard the complaints and decided to improve its quality. With each passing year, the output became richer and tastier. I had nothing to complain about but render compliments. Soon bitterness made exit and I started plucking mangoes, storing them in boxes covered with hay to ensure quick ripening.
The process of sharing it with neighbours gathered speed, just like in the case of the litchi tree. People began to compliment the taste. It was a matter of pride for my father who planted it. When asked, he did not specify the low-profile name of the variant. It was not the usual type available in the market like Himsagar or Langda, but it came with a rich taste and juicy pulp from some deeper pockets of a remote northern India town.
While my grades left the scope for complaints and improvement in Science and Maths, the mango tree was the clear winner. I promised to beat the mango tree in performance without knowing the area of competition. Repeated failures came my way. I was disillusioned. But one truth stood out. My love of fruits was strong, and the mango tree drew me closer to nature.
I started spending more time sitting and wondering about its journey into the future. The mango tree gave me the fruit I enjoyed aside from being the architect of my creative world. It gave me the idea of seed and its importance in writing. The seed of imagination grew. I began to learn valuable lessons outside the classroom. I began to search for the seed, to nurture it and develop it into a proper shape. My love for my writing got its first seed from the mango tree. I wrote my maiden short piece, a creative essay fashioned along those lines. I was inspired to add pulp and flesh out the idea well. The skin of the city as a character portrayed. Besides, adding a layer was also borrowed from the mango tree. The fruit imparted pleasure to the taste buds. I wanted to create something to deliver immense joy to those reading my creations and renditions.
The mango tree and I found some common ground to compete. We were creating something beautiful for the taste buds and hoping consumers would relish the product — both the fruit of imagination and the mango fruit. Doing well in their ways. My writings drew praise from teachers and friends. The circle began to widen. I hoped my writing would become tasty like the mango relished by so many people worldwide.
While it was ambitious to find a large following of readers, I had found a purpose and direction to follow. I wanted my words to taste good as the mangoes in my garden. While the mango tree found early success, it has been a long, lonely struggle to find acceptance for my words – with natural sweetness added to the creative output. The lesson from the mango tree is to be rich like its fruit and have the same qualities in the writing output. Hopefully, one day my words will come closer to the sweet, rich, juicy taste of the mangoes that grew in my backyard.
Devraj Singh Kalsi works as a senior copywriter in Kolkata. His short stories and essays have been published in Deccan Herald, Tehelka, Kitaab, Earthen Lamp Journal, Assam Tribune, and The Statesman. Pal Motors is his first novel.
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