Better Buy a Ball of Butter

     My mom never made cheese. She never knew what it was like. But she did make a lot of butter and ghee from the milk leftover after we had supplied the neighborhood. Free home delivery was our responsibility. We kids did it well without causing any concern for customer care or ultimately our bossy mom.  We raised chickens, goats, rabbits, and cattle. We also grew a fair share of our own food, like edible leaves, veggies, and tubers, mostly annuals but also perennials. Everybody contributed towards the labor, therefore we hardly ever needed to hire a farmhand.

There was no such thing as waste on our homestead. In fact, there is no such thing as organic waste on this planet we call home. Mom boiled the unsold milk and let it cool off. She then added a little buttermilk as culture and kept it overnight for turning the earthen milk pot into a pot of buttermilk. Once she was free from farm chores, she would sit back to churn the curds into little scattered butter islands surfacing on a turbulent milky sea.

 Persuading these butter islands to form a ball and then produce a sizeable amount of butter requires great manoeuvering skill, which is not easily masterable. I would lend my pair of hands to turn the wooden churner when Mom’s hands got tired from churning. But I never tried to learn how to do it on my own. We seldom sold the butter. Instead, we treated ourselves to it for breakfast as a dipping sauce for hot, straight-from-the-oven “Kattippathiri”, which is a thick, round rice bread rolled flat placed on a piece of a banana frond.

My eyes caught hold of a few golden butter balls on display last week. I was on a regular stroll around the Tuesday market in Abha. I think I had seen them there before, but they had never reminded me so vividly of my own roots before. Here are some for you to savor while I revisit the butter days of my pastoral past.

From Plow to Plate with Love

My granddad on my mother’s side had his own paddy fields. He sold them piecemeal to marry off his eight daughters. However, he continued to farm on fields he took on lease. Nothing could stop a man from doing what he had done all his life. He had his own pair of plowing bulls, two pairs at the most. Like each of his ten children, these bulls too had their own names, no different from those of men.

     After every harvest, my grandfather would send a share to each daughter’s house. Having been brought up by a veteran rice farmer, each of his daughters knew very well how to put the paddy to the best possible use. My mom was no exception.

She boiled some of her share, at times with bulbils of yam as a treat for us kids. She spread some of it under the sun on a bamboo mat to dry, before gathering it up into a sack and sending us to the miller to make flour out of it.

The carriable portion to a teenager, having packed up in a repurposed plastic bag and sealed with a burlap rope, would start its walk safely seated over my head. The bag took the shape of my head making a crushing noise, shrouding my head from ear to ear. The grains would be talking to each other just as we do when the teacher leaves the classroom. I would hear the music of hard labor under a scorching sun, firmly treading ankle-deep in muddy water.

 Negotiating the mood swings of the monsoon, the sons of the soil would enter into a bet with the sun. Those bets, looking back now, were nothing but a sheer gamble for survival, the way it has always been for food producers. The gambler never had any regrets, though many times the sap in the grain failed to bring it to fruition, making a whole season’s crop go to chaff.

The character Alvero in JM Coetzee’s novel The Childhood of Jesus quotes a poet saying that bread is the way the sun enters our bodies. How poetic, and how true. 

63 “Plant Once & Forget” Fruiting Plants for Your Backyard in Kerala

63 “Plant Once & Forget” Fruiting Plants for Your Backyard in Kerala

I love plants, especially fruiting ones. But I can’t nurture them like I do my own kids. For example, I may, or may not, care to water them in summer. What to do? Well, I’ve stumbled upon the perfect solution drawing on veteran planters and personal experiences. Here I am to share it with you happily ever.

If we are away or too busy to give time to our green friends, the six-months-long dry spell in Kerala can be a trying time for many fruit trees we wish to come to fruition in our backyards. Many may wither and die back depending on the water retention capacity of the soil they are in. However, thanks to the six months of Monsoon, we can still grow a lot of fruit plants depending solely on the rain in this, God’s own country. What matters most is the choices we make and a little bit of homework before we line the plants up on the ground.

Here is a range of drought-resistant fruit plants for your next vacation to-do list. Their ability to withstand a no-watering summer may vary but they can survive to an amazing extent. However, if we can somehow manage to water them during the initial period following establishment, they will surely thrive. They are bound to be back with a smiling face much earlier than expected. Plant once with care and forget about them, only be back when they summon you back with a “Thank You” note. Let us look at the list. Feel free to choose as many of them as you like.

1.    Sindooram mango (സിന്ദൂരം)
2.    Chandrakkaran mango (ചന്ദ്രക്കാരൻ)
3.    Kaalappadi mango (കാലപ്പാടി)
4.    Moovandan mango (മൂവാണ്ടൻ)
5.    Komaanga (കോമാങ്ങ) or Priyor mango (പ്രിയോർ)
6.    Vietnam super-early jackfruit (വിയറ്റ്നാം സൂപ്പർ ഏർളി)
7.    Honey Jackfruit (തേൻ വരിക്ക)
8.    Sindoor jack (സിന്ദൂർ)
9.    Anakkayam-1 Cashew (ആനക്കയം ഒന്ന് കശുമാവ്)
10.           Priyanka Cashew (പ്രിയങ്ക കശുമാവ്)
11.           Sulabha K10-2 Cashew (സുലഭ കശുമാവ്)
12.           Rambutan N18 (റംബൂട്ടാൻ N18)
13.           Rambutan King (റംബൂട്ടാൻ കിംഗ്)
14.           Mamey Sapote (മാമിസപ്പോട്ട Pantin variety)
15.           Mattova (മട്ടോവ)
16.           Longan (ലോങ്കൻ)
17.           Stelechocarpus Burhol (കെപൽ)
18.           Soursop (മുള്ളൻ ചക്ക)
19.           Breadfruit (കടച്ചക്ക)
20.           Pineapple (കൈതച്ചക്ക)
21.           Little Indian Gooseberry( അരിനെല്ലി)
22.           Indian Gooseberry (സാതാനെല്ലി)
23.           Jamun White (ഞാവൽ വെളള)
24.           Jamun Black (ഞാവൽ ബ്ലാക്ക്)
25.           Star fruit / Carambola (ചതുരപുളി)
26.           Tamarind (വാളൻ പുളി)
27.           Sweet Tamarind (തായ്‌ലൻഡ്പുളി)
28.           Scramberry / Lovelolica ചണ്ങമ്പഴം
29.           Indian Plum (അമ്പഴം)
30.           Common fig /Arabian fig (അറേബ്യൻ അത്തി)
31.           Jujube (എലന്തപ്പഴം)
32.           Baccourea courtallensis (മുട്ടിപ്പഴം)
33.           Egg fruit (മുട്ടപ്പഴം)
34.           Gold fruit (ഗോൾഡ്ഫ്റൂട്ട്)
35.           Wild Jack (ആഞ്ഞിലി)
36.           Bhod Tree/ Stunted Jack  (വെട്ടി/ഏച്ചില) Aporusa Lindleyana
37.           Ceylon oak/Gum lac tree (പൂവം/പൂവത്തി ) 
38.           Thadathi (തടത്തി) To be updated with English name
39.     Spinous Kino Tree/ Cork wood(മുള്ളൻ വേങ്ങ/ മുള്ളൻ കയനി)

40.           Kilo guava (കിലോപേര)
41.            Guava Alahabad Safeda (അലഹബാദ് സഫേദ) / Lucknow 49
42.           Thailand Guava (തായ്‌ലൻഡ്പേര)
43.           Manila Tennis Cherry (മാനില ട്ടെന്നീസ് ചെറി)
44.           West Indian Cherry (വെസ്റ്റ് ഇന്ത്യൻ ചെറി)
45.           Large Rose Apple Green (പച്ച വലിയ ചാമ്പ)
46.           Rose Apple Red / Rose, large or small variety (പനിനീർ ചാമ്പ വലുത്)
47.           Lime (ചെറുനാരങ്ങ)
48.           Pomegranate (നീർമാതളം)
49.           Pomelo (മാന്തോളിനാരകം)
50.           Mulberry (മൾബറി)
51.            Pakistani Mulberry (longer fruit) (പാകിസ്താനി മൾബറി)
52.            Jaboticaba (ജബോട്ടിക്കാബ)
53.           Peanut Butter (പീനട്ട് ബട്ടർ)
54.           Bullet Wood (ഇലഞ്ഞി)
55.           Sapote (സപ്പോട്ട)
56.           Awaiting verified information
57.           Awaiting verified information
58.           Awaiting verified information
59.           Awaiting verified information
60.           Awaiting verified information
61.           Awaiting verified information
62.           Awaiting verified information
63.           Awaiting verified information

Spoiled for choice? I thought as much. But hang on a minute. I told you to “plant them once with care” before you leave them behind. The operative words here are “with care”. I recommend digging a large pit (തള്ളക്കുഴി) no less than 1 cubic meter (1m x 1m x 1m) in size. The bigger, the better. Fill it with all sorts of locally sourced organic manure and fertilizers like cow dung, bone meal, peanut cake, neem cake and a bit of pseudomonas. Laying down a few layers of coconut husks will aid water retention. Then dig a smaller pit (പിള്ളക്കുഴി) right in the middle of the bigger one and firm down the green baby in it. Now the two of you are friends for life. She won’t sulk even if you prove a little indifferent in the years to come.

A big round of applause for the soil that supply nutrients. A pat on the invisible shoulder of the breeze that aerates. A naughty wink at the clouds that water, and a thumbs-up to the bees that pollinate. You be right back there in time to savor nature’s candy. When that happens, don’t neglect to leave some for our feathered friends.

Why wait? Pull on your garden boots and get your hands dirty for an abundance of fruits year-round.

Audacity of homes at dizzying heights…

     The picture we conjure up in our minds when we hear the word "home" is usually not far from the conventional roof-over-our-heads. However, it can hardly be stranger than what tribesmen of Habla once called their home. You might have seen an eagle perching its eyrie on rocky cliffs at a high altitude, or wild honeybees suspending their giant beehive in the armpit of a gigantic mountain cliff. But do men do the same? Maybe biomimicry is not as new as we thought it was – even though my natural inclination would be to resist the idea even if the girl I was madly in love with insisted on it. 

Please excuse my camera for not being my own substitute pair of eyes, let alone for those who know Habla only through hearing or by reading about it. I understand I am doing an injustice to things I am talking about by showing a picture which is necessarily reductive, detracting from Habla’s true magnificence. However, it is a compromise; less is certainly better than nothing in this case.

The word “habal” is an Arabic word meaning “rope”. The people living down below used to use a long stretch of rope (about 300 yards) to go up to sell or barter the things they made in exchange for the things they needed. Honey, hides, food grains, and their flours were a few among the commodities they had on offer. A few “badhu” families lived there for generations. Acrophobia was clearly something unheard of among them, as they couldn’t have had any fear of heights.

Bedouins, or badhu, as they are locally known, are not uncommon in the cities of the Aseer region today. Their dress code is distinctive from that of modern-day Saudis. They still live in the remote villages, mainly herding sheep or collecting herbs and honey. They seldom wear a “thobe” and “godhra” but a kind of floral “iqaal” instead. This is a garland worn around the head, braided with flowers and herbs, dried or fresh, available locally.  They are seen in colorful lungi (a garment similar to a sarong) fixed with a wide belt around their waist extending to their ankles. They also wear an ornamental dagger across the belt.

 I have no idea why exactly the tribesmen chose to call such mountainous, seemingly inhospitable, terrain home. The Aseer region certainly has no shortage of land. Maybe they felt threatened by more powerful neighboring tribes or aggressive nomadic ones. It has also been suggested that they were fleeing from Turks during the time of the Ottoman Empire.

Habla is undoubtedly a peak which seems to many people like the end of the world - literally. Nowhere else in the Al Sarwat mountain range, where I work in Abha, a tabletop city, have I seen topography like this. Abha richly deserves the title “Capital of Arab tourism”, not least for its topography.

The Museum of Candy Days

        I lifted my pair of eyes from the book to unintentionally meet those belonging to a lady sitting in a circle not far from me. "In her eyes was the light that you see only in children arriving at a new place". She was just distributing candies to her team from a half rolled down plastic bag. I averted my eyes, looking away, appearing indifferent, wearing a contemplative mask. I readily wear one of those during dreamy breaks I occasionally take during reading. It helps me digest, and by doing so I offer religious obedience to my ophthalmologist's advice.  After a short while, I went back to my book to pick up where I had left off.

Time passed. No sooner did I want a break and was about to get up, two candies flew and crash-landed, one on my lap, the other on my book. The one that landed on my book made a resounding noise like that of a boot heel on a wooden panel. The lady looked like could be my mum's age, and was by a man seemed her kids' dad. “Age had not made him less handsome, as is so often the case; it had simply made him less visible” in her company.

She didn’t wait for a word of thanks from me. Nor did she seem to care for a grateful glance. Who could she be? Perhaps a distant aunt of Kemal Bay’s, immortalized by Orhan Pamuk in his novel The Museum of Innocence. One of her teammates was wearing a Turkish flag strip on her headscarf signaling to me that we were not far from Istanbul. Looking happy, no matter whether they realized it or not. “In fact, no one recognizes the happiest moment of their lives as they are living it" it.”

I am no longer a big fan of candies. Not because I have convinced myself that I have outgrown them, but I was brainwashed by one of my friends to be a sugar-free, gluten-free, animal-fat-free idiot. I soon recovered my earlier self once he left the office where we worked together, but the sugar-free affliction remains.   However, I did fear I may dishearten my well-wisher, so I felt obliged to savor one of the still unwrapped gifts in appreciation of that kind gesture. Who was the other one for? That question didn’t take long to find a satisfactory answer. None other than the one who strongly suggested to me that if I was ever to read only one book by Pamuk, it should be The Museum. “If we give what we treasure most to a Being we love with all our hearts, if we can do that without expecting anything in return, then the world becomes a beautiful place.”

Those lines I displayed in quotation marks are the ones I pilfered from The Museum of Innocence, following in the footsteps of rich Kemal Bay shoplifting silly artifacts from Fuzun's impoverished house. Sorry, I couldn’t resist. “Let everyone know, I lived a very happy life” - being close, though not being among the museum circle. “Sometimes I would see them not as mementos of the blissful hours but as the tangible precious debris of the storm raging in my soul.”