The Mango Orchard
Summer: The Season of Mangoes
Summer is now at its peak, scorching as usual, and a scourge
for those who must be out on the streets for work or otherwise; but the arrival
of mangoes in the market offers some welcome cheer. Unseasonal hailstorm and
rains damaged the crop this year, and the prices are high; but that cannot diminish
the craving and joy of mango lovers.
Shyama’s Aam Burei
A mango orchard, by whatever name - aam burei in Sambalpuri,
aamba tota in Odia, aam bagan in Hindi, and aamra kunj in Sanskrit – is a
pleasant place; but a particular one brings in a rush of childhood memories;
the aam burei of Khuntpali, my village in Odisha.
The owner’s name was Shyama Charan - a mouthful, and a
tongue-twister - so the orchard was called Shama’s aam burei by adults; but for
kids it simply was the aam burei.
Around 1960, the owner was past 95, and unable to walk from
home to his orchard, but since he insisted upon an inspection of his favourite
trees laden with ripening fruit; he was hoisted by two men and placed on the
carrier-cum-seat at the rear of a bicycle, and a servant walked to roll the bicycle
gently while a second one followed to steady the pillion-rider occasionally.
The elaborate transport ritual was a curious spectacle for the kids who apprehended
that he might topple down any minute, and so as not to miss the event they followed
him all the way up to the orchard. He used no glasses, but squinted hard hoping
to sight the mangoes high up on the trees and often hidden among the leaves. If
he missed to see the fruits, maybe his memory filled in with alluring pictures.
Shyama, the Horticulturist
It had about fifty trees, and had been planted by a youthful
Shyama long before agricultural extension officers of the Block Development
office promoted horticulture. Where did
he source the saplings for such excellent plants, each yielding fruits bigger
than the desi varieties, and tastier (I guess, never having sampled the
choicest ones)? How did he protect the young saplings from the grazing cattle,
and how were the tender plants watered for several seasons? I guess he had dug
that deep well at the western end, the one with durable laterite stone masonry
which had abundant water even in peak summer, and women from Uparpara[i]
drew drinking water for their homes. Shyama had a large land holding and had several
gutis[ii]
to manage his land; so, a guti might have worked on a tenda[iii],
or a bharia[iv]
must have taken trips from the well to irrigate the plants in summer.
A Place for All Seasons
The orchard provided a soothing green for the eyes round the
year, an amazing range of colours when the mangoes began ripening, and the
coolest open-air space for rest and play. But what I recall most is the
fragrance of mango blossoms blended with a whiff of nearly-done jaggery being
cooked in large, rectangular black cauldrons. In fact, whenever I smell mango
blossom, or jaggery being cooked for a condiment; I am instantly transported to
Shyama’s aam burei, and can visualise the scene of his men cooking jaggery. A
most captivating frgrance for me.
The orchard was a place for all seasons except during the rains
when it smelled of fallen leaves rotting and turning to manure, and all kinds
of insects and crawlies were busy breeding and feeding. But the knowledgeable
and the watchful ones were richly rewarded and harvested the clusters of bali
chhati (sand mushroom), tiny but very tasty.
The aam burei was an open-air, free-to-use cool premise
where one could spread a gamcha[v]
on the floor for a pleasant siesta sheltered from the raging loo outside; a
foursome played popular card-gamess – Magni, Diglait, or Bray - with keen
watchers and voluble advisers surrounding them and sharing the joy or sadness
of every deal.
Gamblers’ Paradise
To keep the village chowkidar and the beat constable at
Bargarh police station in the dark about the event, hardcore gamblers from the neighbouring
villages assembled all on a sudden, the schedule and the venue known only to a
select few. Upon his turn, a player would pick up the cowries, cup his palms
and give it a vigorous shake, and place his ‘throw’ on the mat. ‘Win’ or ‘loss’
depended on the count of cowries which had landed on their front or back. After playing for a few hours, they went back
to their respective villages. Most villagers never even knew that a serious,
high-stakes gambling event had taken place, fortunes had been won and lost, and
wads of notes, gold ornaments, and sometimes parcels of land had changed hands.
Chaturbhuj Pujari from our village was a star gambler, and people whispered
about the ups and downs in his fortune and the mega deals he had won or lost. If
upon return to his home, Chaturbhuj ordered vast quantities of jalebi, piazi, alu
chup, and pakode from Sanatan gudia[vi];
it was correctly surmised that he had won big that day.
The orchard was also the venue where a bakra was butchered
on Pushpuni, the day for feasting in western Odisha, and two-rupee and
five-rupee portions of meat were placed on a large khajur patti[vii],
and the buyers could buy one or more heaps.
The orchard was unfenced and two pedestrian tracks passed
through it. It was a public utility except in the mango harvest season when a
guti guarded it from planned theft by adults or guerrilla raids by desperate
kids. He planted his rope cot in the middle of the orchard with a clear view of
all the corners, and tenaciously guarded it.
We did not know the names of the varieties of mango plants
in the orchard, but knew which ones were easy to climb, and which one had a
branch that could be ridden like a bouncing horse, and which two branches were
so closely grown and enmeshed that they made a perfect bed to rest while
listening to cuckoos. We avoided the trees that were dangerous to climb since
the red ants with a very painful sting were quick to attack and send the
climber scampering to the ground. We believed that Shyama had reared these red ants,
as a second line of defence against potential thieves, on the trees producing
the most delicious mangoes. We knew of the method to neutralise the insect army
– smear the exposed parts of your body with ash or very fine dust and the ants
fall off your body before they can sting; but a few clever ants got inside our clothes
and their guerrilla attack was more effective than that of the frontline
soldiers.
In the afternoon during the mango season, we gingerly
entered the orchard, and pretended to play gilli-danda; the watchman pretended
to be fast asleep on his cot; but should any of us hurl the danda at the
ripening fruits, he sprang from the cot, and chased us away while shouting
choicest galis at us and our ‘irresponsible’ parents.
Summer’s Surprise Gift
When summer storms rushed in all on a sudden, especially
after a scorching afternoon, the near-ripe mangoes fell from the trees in a
shower, and the ground was carpeted in a dazzling array of colours with fallen
mangoes. As the wind whooshed intermittently, the thop-thop-thop of falling
mangoes could be clearly heard from the Uparpara where we lived. We bolted like
wild horses reaching the orchard in a flash, and picked up one or more mangoes
in each hand while the guard hollered at us and moved as though to chase, but many
kids were on a raid from all corners, and the hapless watchman could do little
to prevent the plunder which was minor and inconsequential since the mangoes
that Shyama’s servants would gather and take home were a lot more than the
owner’s family could consume before they got spoiled. Maybe that was summer’s
surprise gift for the kids.
A few years ago, I visited my village. Shyama’s grandson has
built a house on the eastern flank of the orchard, a few old trees are still there,
but the aam burei that I remembered as a child is gone for ever. I wonder if
jaggery is still cooked in season when mango trees are laden with blossoms, and
the heady blended fragrance wafts into the village if the wind blows in the
right direction.
***
Note: Apologies for
using several Sambalpuri words. If I could type in Odia script on my laptop, I
would have written this piece in Sambalpuri.
[i] A mohalla
of the village
[ii] Agricultural
labour hired on yearly contract
[iii] A traditional
contraption made with a wooden pole, bamboo, and ropes to draw water from a
well or river
[iv] A worker
who carries a load of two water-pitchers or anything else hung with a bamboo
sling on his shoulder
[v] A thin
cotton towel
[vi] The local
snack-maker
[vii] A mat
made from weaving date-palm leaves
No comments:
Post a Comment