Fruit
It started with the pomelo. The fruit was delicious one year, pale green, dimpled and fragrant on the outside, pink and juicy on the inside. Each bead was plump, an exploding citrus bomb. But the stars of the show were the seeds. I harvested thirty six perfect, gleaming white tear drop seeds from just one fruit. Without giving it any thought (regrettably, that’s how most of my gardening happens), I stuck them in a pot newly filled with moist soil and forgot about them. When the first fuzzy saplings showed their heads above ground, I mistook them for mustard plants. Then I remembered the pomelo seeds. When a head count was taken, all were alive and well. Thirty six! Enough to start a pomelo grove. Expecting a few to give up the fight, I ignored them. They continued to push upwards, all three dozen of them. Appeals for good homes brought the numbers down to a manageable twelve. They are thriving as I write, about two feet tall. They are fated to be vertically challenged, given the depth of the pot, but the leaves are healthy, glossy and distinctly shaped. A smaller lobe at the base of the stem opens into a larger lobe. When crushed, the leaf releases the most delicious citrus oil and aroma.
My once in a while gardener made one attempt to make me see sense. These were never going to fruit, was his gloomy prediction. They needed soil and cross pollination and half a dozen other factors. I blithely ignored him. One day, my pomelo will fruit. Right here, on my balcony. I talk to them and brainwash them every day. They are growing up, convinced they are destined for great things.
That’s how the bug bit me. Next, it was two lychee seeds, both doing well too, except they don’t like the salt water the monsoon winds bring to my balcony. They look like this is the end, goodbye, shed their leaves and get very depressed. The monsoon over, they revive again. The new growth is delicately pink, the same colour as the inside of the lychee. Then they mature into elegantly long and green leaves. Hardy little things. I like plants that survive despite my very rough and ready ministrations. They may fruit in about twenty five years, my gardener says pessimistically.
The limes and sweet lime are long suffering buffet spreads for the caterpillars of the Common Mormon. They are regularly stripped of every leaf by the spectacularly ugly little dears. A deep green banded with darker stripes, the caterpillars blend in beautifully amongst the glossy green leaves and wicked thorns of the mosambi plants. These too are growing from seed, but the limes were a gift from a friend’s garden. Perhaps that is why they have never quite flourished here in South Bombay. They possibly miss Bandra and the glamorous life they lead there.
Last year, we had the cherries to beat all cherries. Huge, dark red and very sweet. I hoarded the seeds jealously. These were the only fruit seeds that flatly refused to sprout. Like the limes, they were too high born for our dusty, mostly drab surroundings. I suspect they need ancient castles and monasteries as their backdrop or at the very least, the Potomac River…
My jackfruit saplings are doing very well though. Each new leaf bud is encased in a little sheath, the leaf slowly unfurling so that the sheath opens and curls away as the broad leaf grows. I adore jackfruit. These saplings will need a home in the ground soon. I dream of planting them on the roadside so that one day, the tall trees will produce the huge fruit in abundance for anyone to take away.
The big success this season has been with the chikoos. I planted the seeds in April, and then we were struck by a terrible heat wave. The alchemy that happens under the soil is wonderful to imagine. All through that heat, the seeds remained nestled in the relatively cool mud. It only took the first shower of the year, and one plant is out and about. Two leaves is not much to be optimistic about but hey, it’s a sign of life. Always good.
I must confess that none of my fruit plants have ever actually produced a fruit. Gardener: One, Me: Zero. Conditions are not ideal, my rational mind accepts this fact. The magical fun for me is in planting the seeds and watching them grow.
My pomelo, though. They will surprise me one day.