Remember that old jackfruit tree

with those elusive green giants?

perched so high and mighty,

sought by little hands of curiosity,

by children fighting for their own

share of the ‘fruit’

Remember our great surprise

when we found out,

it was one among the veggies

‘a common man’s meat,

only vegetarian’,

as the elders called it.

Its sap trickled like a milky wave,

the excitement of holding it as a price

uniting the neighbourhood.

Like some treasure hunt promoting

our innocence.


Too scared then to climb up the tree

to claim it,

lucky for the cityscape to still not

maim it,

I watch it,

as if in a freeze frame.

I look at the home we left,

how all fruits of our labours to

claim it

fell like autumn leaves,

trodden by careless feet

on the pavement.

Where once not so long ago,

the jackfruit sap fell like

cool water of baptism,

suddenly with the summer,

a symbol of the roots that held us

to these walls.


That is the legend.

The folklore.

As long as the jackfruits hang above

this hearth,

a return to a world of memories

is never too far.

The King of Fruits,

always in rebirth for me.


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