Nuts about Fruits

Not really.

I mean, I am not that nutty about fruits. Or maybe. About some.

As a child I had the rare privilege of sampling exotic species of fruits. And straight from the trees, that too. Branches heavy-laden with fruits so ripe that the slightest breeze was enough to shake them free and deposit on the ground. Mornings were mostly reserved for scouring the courtyard for guavas and rose-apples. Those that bore tooth-marks of bats and other assorted nocturnal creatures were forbidden, but I’ve had those too anyway.

I had two tiny aunts, who were only about 9 and 12 years older than me, stay over at my place quite frequently. I used to envy their skill in climbing trees, especially that of the younger one. She used to lithely drape her long limbs around the tree and almost float up along trunk. She’d pluck those half-ripe guavas and drop me some, for I’d be patiently waiting beneath the tree, salivating and envying her blasted good luck to be able to gnaw at the crunchy green skin and spit out half chewed bits in a neat shower.

I’ve had my revenge too, by the time my kid brother was of the age when he tottered around the courtyard, waiting beneath trees for benevolent gifts of guavas, I was an expert tree climber. I’ve skinned my knees and half cracked my skull because I’ve fallen from almost all the big trees. I’ve known the sting of quite a few varieties of ants. I’ve observed in close quarters the symbiotic relationship between the white fungi on trees and the ant colony that raises them.

There are mainly two varieties of guava. Red and white. Red is lip-smacking good and very sweet. White is crunchy and they grow big. The trees don’t grow beyond a certain size. They are very climbable without being intimidating. One of the trees that used to be my favourite had twin branches extending to either side from the main trunk, so the tree was shaped like a catapult. A fine seating place. The higher one went up the tree the better it was, because the branches caught even the slightest wind and swayed like mad dancers. It was exhilarating to be at the mercy of the wind, all the while trusting reed thin branches to carry one’s weight.

I started young.

Subjective Opinion

I don't like Paulo Coelho. There. I said it. I liked 'Zahir' and that's about it. Extreme spirituality gives me indigestion. Besides, I don't like the whiny prose either.

Kundera is better. Only slightly. He's more objective about the whining.

I like Shashti Brata. Especially 'Confessions of an Indian Woman Eater'. Also, 'My God Died Young'. I like the irreverence.

I read Rebecca (Finally!). I didn't like the story, or the too-detailed prose.

I still like Poe. I don't like Ayn Rand. But I liked 'Anthem'.

I like Jeanette Winterson.

I don't like obscure prose merely because it's obscure.

I want to read good fiction.

Any suggestions from my random visitors?