Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
RedRiot Jun 2022
Iodine. Or rather, iodine tincture. As a young child, I didn't really understand what iodine tincture was. All I knew was that it was a funny reddish color, it was cold, and my grandfather always had it with him. Whenever I was injured, with little scrapes and bruises on my elbows and knees, a small vial of iodine tincture suddenly materialized in my grandfather's hand. I remember quiet moments in the summer, when I sat propped up on the bed, watching in fascination as my grandfather placed two small drops of the liquid on to my knee, rubbing it in with a cotton ball. As soon as the iodine touched my knee, all my pain went away. Looking back, I'm not sure how effective that tiny bottle actually was, but to five year old me, the iodine tincture was a magical potion, and my grandfather was the wizard who wielded it.

Pomegranate seeds. I'm sure most of us are familiar with the white little seeds encased by the beautifully red and juicy pomegranate 'arils' (don't worry, I had to look that word up too). Peeling the pomegranate skin off to reach the edible fruit itself is already such a hassle -- who has the time to take out the seeds? They are a minor inconvenience, and so we pop the whole jewel into our mouths. But when I think of pomegranate seeds, I think of Dadun, my dearest grandfather. I remember sitting in a very unstable plastic chair that I would intentionally rock back and forth, testing the limits of gravity. I remember a cool breeze that would shake the leaves of trees , providing some reprieve from the hot summers in Kolkata, India. Dadun and I would sit in the shade of the monoon tree, which cast shadows in a small corner of our balcony. I would prop my small feet onto his knees, excitedly chattering away as he quietly listened. In his hands he held two bowls. One bowl had half a pomegranate, and the other held the small arils. One by one, he somehow extracted each white seed and tossed it back into the first bowl. Within a half hour, I had in front of me a clean bowl of seedless pomegranate arils, carefully prepared by my grandfather. I would of course completely wolf down the entire bowl of sweet fruit in far less time than it took to extract the fruit. Dadun would always have a satisfied smile on his face afterwards, knowing that he had made my day.

Jackfruit. It's a weird thing. In some American stores, I've only ever seen canned jackfruit, which looks, smells, and tastes weird. In some Asian stores, I've seen the actual fruit, but it's always either got a weird starchy flavor, or the fruit itself is far too small. In Kolkata, that's where it's just right. Jackfruit in Kolkata can weigh almost 100 pounds. Beyond the spiky exterior lies a very unique gem of a fruit. It is sticky like a mango, smells far sweeter than a durian, and tastes like nothing else you've ever experienced. It is bright yellow, and a common staple in households. I remember every time we visited Kolkata, one random morning I would wake and sit at the dining table, and everyone would be making a funny face. My grandfather would be seated in a shirt and khakis, an indication that he had been outside, as it was different from the simple blue lungi he generally wore. He'd look away to the opposite direction, almost as if he were guilty about something. My grandmother would be in the kitchen angrily cleaning, yelling about how my grandfather had no considerations for her, no logic, etc. etc. My mother would be silently laughing into her palm. And in the next moment, out of nowhere Dadun would pull out a GIANT jackfruit and place it right on to the table. My face would immediately light up and I would gleefully laugh. Dadun didn't mind getting yelled at by my grandmother for going out early in the morning just to lug this ridiculously large fruit into the house. It was worth it when he saw me laughing, and he would join in with his deep bellowing HA HA HA. Together we'd laugh at the sheer ridiculousness that was the jackfruit, and the sheer ridiculousness that was inevitably going to be us eating the entire thing, piece by piece.

Load-shedding. When I was young, people would say the word so fast, as in "Are, load-sheddding hoyeche", I hadn't even realized it was an english phrase. The official definition is the distribution of power to lessen the load on a source, but I equated it to a power outage, which is incredibly common across all of India. The outages were not necessarily predictable, and although they were often disruptive, they were simply a part of life. People were accustomed to them, and everyone just worked around them. At night, the power outages were far more noticeable. Any lights in the house would shut off, shrouding everything in complete darkness. The loud fans, which were often the only source of cooling air, would stop spinning, and the sudden silence that crept into the room was difficult to ignore. With the absence of the fan, the sweltering, muggy heat of the night also became more pronounced. On nights like these, I would be abruptly shaken awake by my mother, who would hand me a small flashlight and instruct me to go into my grandparents room, where the open balcony allowed for more ventilation. There, I would find Dadun, already awake and sitting in a plastic chair, with a pakha in hand. I would sleepily join him on the balcony, as he fanned my face with the pakha, narrating small stories until I fell back asleep. I don't remember the discomfort of those nights, only that without fail, Dadun was always there.

I don't know what my grandfather was like in his younger years. I've been told he was a righteous man, very disciplined and stern. When he was angered, the earth would quake. I've heard from some that he was proud, sometimes too much. I know that he had come from nothing, and that he had overcome numerous obstacles to make something of himself. He had been rich in many ways, and sometimes that had made him both friends and enemies.

I know what my grandfather was like in his last moments, and I choose to ignore it. I choose to forget that although I stood right by him days before he passed, he could not truly see me, and he had no idea his beloved granddaughter was right there. I choose to forget that he could not get out of bed, or speak clearly, or feed and bathe himself. I choose to forget that he had no recollection of when and where he was.

What I know, and choose to remember, about Dadun is that when I was younger he regaled me with tales of science and Hindu religion, somehow connecting what I had perceived as two very different identities. He taught me to be proud of my heritage. No matter how stern he had been in his youth, all I remember is the vigor and openness with which he laughed with me. I remember his bone crushing hugs in which he towered over me and held me close, almost as though he was trying to absorb me into his very being. I remember how he quietly observed me and my little sister at all hours of the day, as though he feared he would never see us again. And I remember that he called me Diya. In a soft and gentle voice, he would ask, "Diya, kamon achish?" "Diya, choroi bethe". "Diya, ki korchish?" Diya, Diya, Diya. No one will ever call me by that name again, but how lucky am I to have been called that at all? Iodine, pomegranate seeds, jackfruit, and load-shedding. Funny little reminders that Dadun loved me with his entire heart and soul. How fortunate am I to have experienced that kind of precious love?

Dadun, amader porer jibone abar dakha hobe.
Kira Feb 2014
Virginity
is the seed
Inside a pulpy jackfruit bulb
Tear the bulb,
take it out
Toss it over,
and
swallow the pulp up

Yellowness vanishes,
and a brown skinny seed remains
Shalini Nayar Sep 2014
The moon cracks and blooms.
Its grey nowhere to be seen,
It shawls itself with a bleak cloud.

The floating pearl biscuit
Busily dictates orions and dippers.
One travels, and people start wishing.

They are hopeless: the people and their pretentious wishes.

The jackfruit tree bears only death: dead leaves, thorned fruits.

Under the nocturnal skies,
It is the great witch.
Silent and black. It is voiceless.

Shalini Nayar
© 2002
Kuzhur Wilson Nov 2013
Since I have no other way
And am in utmost need,
Painter girl,
I filch one of the eight lambs
You have made plump with
Green jackfruit leaves and
Thin gruel with paddy bran.

I will take it to the goat market
And sell it in a jiffy.

I assure you
I will not sell it
To any butcher-
The lamb you made chubby
With sweet sweet words
And much much petting
And nice lilting croons,
Mixing and mixing
Greens with browns.


Don’t be sad, painter girl.
I hear you come running
Searching for your lamb and
Cry out “O my dearest one
Who went grazing in the green fields,”
As the sun in your canvas
Sets in the sea and
The saffron blends with the dusk.
And, see your tears mingle
With the black that you wanted
To adorn the brow of
The naughtiest of them.

Painter girl,
It’s all because I have no other go
And it’s of utmost need.
I could have broken into the
Two-storeyedhouse you sketched
And stolen the ornaments in
Secret lockers that even
You are unaware of.

Or, I could have
Palmed the golden girdle
Of the beautiful ***** princess
Whose portrait you made,
The one with a nose stud.
Or, drugged her with my kisses
And plundered the harem.

Or else, I could have
Entered the snake shrine
Guarded by the dark serpents
That you often drew
And fled the country with
The precious jewel.

Or, I could have shot down
The birds that you drew
And sold them grilled.

I could have axed down the
Mahagony trees you nurtured
And sold them as timber.
I could have blinded your Kanhaiah
And made him a beggar
To become rich from the alms he earned.
I could have enslavened his Gopis
And handed them over
To the red light streets.

Painter girl,
It’s not for anything of this sort.
I take just one of your eight lambs.
Sell it for a good price
And fulfill my need.

Now, perchance,
If a new tenant comes to rent
My brain where nothing resides
And if they pay me a fat advance,
Painter girl,
Surely will I buy back your lamb.
And tether it in your painting.
Don’t you dare say then
Don’t you say then
That you have forgotten it.
Don’t you say then
You have exhausted your stock of
Green jackfruit leaves.


(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
(Trans from Malayalam by Ra Sh)
Gaye Nov 2015
With the house they are selling their childhood and adolescence, five funny brothers and grandmother's sweets, late night dramas and the unattractive maids they inherited, cigarettes they puffed secretly and lessons they learned with jackfruit pulp. Now the roots are being pulled and I wonder what'll be left. I wish people live there, generations come and play on its front yard and I hope my ancestors understand new generation urbanism and modernity.
They are selling the house.
Kuzhur Wilson Apr 2016
Was driving
To shivaraathri manappuram [1]
With idichakkas [2]
To meet you
One day.

Enroute
To a vow made one life
The two chakka dumpkins
Their smug demeanor
Drove me to chuckles.
Like guys  
On a global tour  
They  
Waved buddies bubye
Babbled on
To the jackfruit trees
On the boulevard
Singing “salaama salaama…”
The jackfruit rap
Boisterously.
I was beside myself
With laughter.
The exertion
Exhausted my cheeks
I stopped near a shop
For a cigarette
Saw there,
Two packets
Of fried chakka chips
Among other snacks.
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Overwhelmed them
They broke into tears
They recalled
Their haughty ride
In a car once
Singing salama
A festering past
That throbbed with
The agony  
Of getting torn to shreds
Of getting fried crisp
In boiling oil.
The chakka dumpkins
Were dumbstruck
They stopped singing
And began to cry
Looking upon their sisters
Sister, you have forgotten me!
An utterance from Khasak
Muffled the scene.
Sad at their plight
I held them close
My chakka dumpkins
For you
Forget it honey
Forget it dear
I patted them
Trying to stop their tears.
The chakka fries
And my darlings
Continued weeping
And wailing.
I smoked a cigarette
Went to them
And whispered in their ears
That I am consigning them
To you.
They laughed innocently
Showing their gums
They bid adieu to
The sisters
Promising
They would meet next life
I felt like
Laughing
And crying.
Laughing
And crying
I sang

Salama, salama
Salama….


Translation  : Shyma P
[1] The sandy landscape in Aluva, whre Sivarathri is popularly celebrated at the Siva temple on the banks of Periyar River and this place is called the Aluva Manal Puram (land with sand)

[2] Unripe jackfruit used to make Kerala cuisines.
Michael R Burch Dec 2022
** Xuan Huong (1772-1882) was a risqué Vietnamese poetess. Her verse — replete with nods, winks, double entendres and ****** innuendo — was shocking to many readers of her day and will doubtless remain so to some of ours. Huong has been described as "the candid voice of a liberal female in a male-dominated society." Her output has been called "coy, often ***** lyrics." More information about the poet follows these English translations of her poems.

Ốc Nhồi ("The Snail")
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My parents produced a snail,
Night and day it slithers through slimy grass.
If you love me, remove my shell,
But please don't jiggle my little hole!



The Breadfruit or Jackfruit
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My body's like a breadfruit ripening on a tree:
My skin coarse, my pulp thick.
My lord, if you want me, pierce me with your stick,
But don't squeeze or the sap will sully your hands!



Bánh trôi nước ("Floating Sweet Dumpling")
by ** Xuan Huong (1772-1882)
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

My powdered body is white and round.
Now I bob. Now I sink.
The hand that kneads me may be rough,
But my heart at the center remains untouched.

Most of Huong's poems were written in Nôm script, a complex Vietnamese adaptation of Chinese characters employed from the 15th to 19th centuries. Through her Nôm poems, Huong helped elevate the status of Vietnamese poetry. A century later, she was called "the Queen of Nôm poetry" by Xuan Dieu, one of Vietnam’s greatest poets.

** Xuan Huong was apparently born in the Quynh Luu district of the north-central province of Nghe An. Xuan Huong means "Spring Fragrance" or "Scent of Springtime." Her father, a scholar named ** Phi Dien, died young. Her mother remarried, as a concubine. Huong grew up near Thang Long (modern Ha Noi), in a male-dominated society in which polygamy was permitted and men were more privileged than women. Huong may or may not have been a concubine herself. Very little is known with any certainty about her life. In 1962, Nguyễn Đức Bính admitted, "I don't know anything about the poetess Hồ Xuân Hương and other people don't know any more than I do." And yet legends do take on lives of their own ...

Keywords/Tags: ** Xuan Huong, Vietnamese, English translations, snail, grass, shell, hole, breadfruit, jackfruit, tree, skin, hands, sap, stain, dumpling, body, powder, powdered, sink, bob, swim, pond, heart, center, red, nom script, spring fragrance, spring essence, concubine
** Xuan Huong, Vietnamese, English translations, snail, grass, shell, hole, breadfruit, jackfruit,
Eshwara Prasad May 2021
Marriage can be compared to a jackfruit.
Before eating, there's an irresistible smell.
After eating , there's a terrible smell.
Ronjoy Brahma Jun 2017
Even more beautiful than the bride
Today evening in my village
Cold and peaceful in the air flow
The scent of the land of farming
In the tree jackfruit and mango
The birds ate a lot fruits
And singing song on the tree branch
The blue sky is so holy and pure
Waterfall is flowing happily beside the village
Silence and sweet song like sing
At the meadow, the cows don't leave to eating grass
The girls eating mango's vegetables
And talking about the love
Now village road is like the design of dokhona
This is the way I walk again and again
the world's largest fruit
world's largest tropical tree
nutritious jackfruit
world's largest fruit tree
is high in magnesium
sold in chips, jackfruit
Styles Sep 2014
Tired, he slept. The breath of a cool breeze passing. The wind swept across banana leaves ablaze golden red ashes burning as grey smoke pours from the remnants of the fire. The aroma of ripe jackfruit taints the Smokey air.

Turquoise- blue, Ocean; waves riding the current. Tidal waves drowning the shoreline, consuming it one rip-tide at a time. Baby Blue-***** racing frantically. Claw tracks marking, as they paw against the damp beach sand. Palm trees swaying, leaves dancing in the breeze. Seagulls soaring, as their wings expand, gliding on bands of the wind.
Maria Mitea Dec 2021
because it  burns  you
you don't like the sun
and the shadow doesn't buy a story,
It knows its edges and the milky ways,
attached to a leaf tail
chlorophyll counts its rays,
***** energy from its light,
- we grow elephant ears,
our heads have shrunk like the peak of a needle
bifurcated,
time does not lie
instead of being permanently bent
head
now it is one meter above the ground
hands / feet / thighs
we do everything we want in upright bipeds
yes,
to get out of africa
we walked thousands of years until we  picked up "the first thumb up"
then again we walked thousands of years,
we raised the thumb up again
thousands of years ... thumb (up) drive one gigabyte,

time does not lie

- i saw you at the țoțora in the polk of medhorotsky,
with the toma from brăila digging  ditches to keep your feet lower,
at a french carnival, you loved a girl and called her by the name
consuelo, mon amour, consuelo, - you wielded swords,
used feathers to write (with the blood) on a soap bubble
you were looking for

the time that does not lie

did you say:

- the night is just beginning to taste like molasses
- from afar, you see love like a bloated balloon lost in the distance
- to recognize the shape of the earth, i have to feel the stars beneath my feet,
to see the one above my head
- people are programmed to see faces even in sandwiches,
to believe strange things, that they can walk on the water or
like in little prince  to believe a talking fox: “though the eyes are eyes, they cannot see,
only the heart can,
tame a flower, and you”ll see that time does not lie ... ”
then what can you expect from the sun
when it burns like a madman in the wilderness and dances like a *****,

hallucinate

they say we are 13.7 billion light-years from the edge,
how  the sun not to like you when it heard you singing a song without a sound,
so simple and clear,
and now every morning it brings you a basket of jackfruit at the gate,

be ”the edge” truth or assumption,
”the foam that forms us and breaks into a vast cloud of styrofoam bbs” (Ken”s words)
who knows, otherwise
it seems that we are close to knowing the real shape of the earth:
jump up, fall on it, is  not  moving,
standstill and solid,
it doesn't matter which way you want to go
you can go in any direction
go far enough
go as far as you can
you will always reach the ocean

did you say:
- we live on an island
Styles May 2015
As the two lost lovers sat hopelessly in love. A crimson colored moon hung over the mountains. Shrouded by gloomy grey clouds it's ray shine down over the water of the dingy pond. The scent of freshly cut grass. The sounds of yelping bullfrogs. The splashing sounds of fish feeding. The wind howling in the background as the sat by the fire. Fire Flies flying by, buzzing as they pass. The fire snapping and cracks, smoking like a chimney. The putrid odor of smoked ripe jackfruit, cooking over the fire. The flame roasting the skin to ash, cooking the delicious fruit to perfection.
Sally A Bayan Jan 2017
....and nowhere near the sea................yet,
there is much around me, to pamper my soul...
i stand in the middle of the backyard
facing the old, mossy concrete fence...
a shady jackfruit tree greets me,
ninety degrees to my left, a tall breadfruit tree
towers over me...both, are with a fruit...or three...
further back, a young coconut tree grows taller,
bends towards the spiky pomelo branches
and completes the square of a hunting arena,
a mess hall for creatures...in the heat of day,
or in the cold of the night...
::::::::
Then, there are these small corners
on the left and right sides of the house
where sunrise peeks, and sunset dips,
smiling, in the morning, in shades of yellow,
tints of red, purple and blue on late afternoons...
a night sky eventually looms, and further enchants
when an ivory, or creamy moon rises,
in soft-toned glow,..waxing, or waning
......half, full, or crescent-shaped...
::::::::
i could fill this page with neighbors i co-exist with,
both human, and otherwise, brightly colored, furry,
or dark-skinned...could be friendly.....or unfriendly
they make me sad...giggle...sometimes, angry,
they amaze me...they all fill my days with wonder
each time I wander
within the corners and walls
that attest to my presence
safely propped,
by the steel beams.......of my existence...

::::::::

Sally


Copyright January 12, 2017
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Brigitta Cuadros Sep 2017
My tropical Jackfruit sapling survived last winter,
but not without care!  
I do hope it makes it, though I won't be there.
When nothing else remains
Gargi Apr 2018
back
Wind hisses. Water runs. Leaves rustle. Bees buzz. Roosters cuckoo.

forth
Bird takes flight. Napkin falls from the string. Cat jumps from a 7-foot door. Man splashes water on face.

back
Almost-ripe mangoes. Jackfruit cut open. Garlic tadka in ghee. Just-washed hair.

forth
Cool wooden swing. Fly hovers over my skin. Strand of hair against my face. Hot tea almost burns tongue.
From the one place which has always been home.
To the  ULTRA RICH

O YE RICHIE RICH, ALL  MINISTERS,  MP, MLA, BEAUROCRATS, BUSINESS TYCOONS, BUILDERS, TO EVER CITIZEN RICH OR POOR.....

A humble request to every wealthy citizen I make; pl share with our INDIA, a little wealth n a few hours.

Here is a very very sincere appeal to use at least 10pc of your wealth for this country of ours

Neglect this please do not,  put this will, our INDIA at the top, grow if we fruits, veggies n flowers;

You have more than you can ever hold; be a donor and  lovingly open your  treasury door

Not a soul then hungry or thirsty will go, definitely bless you they will, from the core.

If you Heaven wish to  attain, you will necessarily have to open a good deed store

God has given you aplenty,  share for this country of ours,10 percent if not twenty.

Advertise you can your products, as you in rows three, plant fruit n veg. trees plenty.

Give back to the Nation we must all, in way some; you can easily when you have wealth aplenty.

Local, easily growing  fruit, vegetable and flower trees if we have on every Indian road;

Bananas, coconut,  guava,  chickoo trees, with that you put up you can your advertisment board;

Drumsticks, jackfruit, mangoes, curry leaves even the poorest of poor, then will be able to afford.

A green INDIA, a Rich YOU, satisfied citizens, it will be a dream come true!

Elders weak, nor will a hungry child for food will have to ever crave or about food rue

Let the rich n the "not so rich" join in for physical manual work, as an assisting crew.

MAY EVERY NOOK N CORNER,  ALL BUILDINGS,  PARKS, ALL  ROADS, EVERY LANE BE GREEN,  CLEAN N SERENE.
TATHASTU
AMEN
AEDOON BAAD

Armin Dutia Motashaw
MANGO, THE KING OF FRUITS & HAFOOS/ALPHANSO  IS THE EMPEROR.

Sweet as sugar,  luscious, with a mouth watering taste n flavour; are insufficient words, to a Mango describe;

Sometimes tangy, sometimes sour, but when ripe, often sweet as sugar; can't describe a Mango aptly, this scribe.

As kids, we were often, this offered, as a reward/award or you may say, a lucrative bribe.

Summers scare most of us in the tropics; but jackfruit and mangoes lure us beyond this unbearable heat;

With "Aam panna, Baflo, lassi, chhash, nimbu-pani,"  one can somewhat, the summer heat beat.

If we have many many more Mango trees, an "Aambawadi", is actually a wonderful, a truly good retreat.

So let's not just enjoy the fruit, let's also plant its seed.

Armin Dutia Motashaw

— The End —