Nuts of nostalgia

When I received a letter informing me that our cashew tree had suddenly withered away, I was shocked beyond words—it felt like losing a close relative. The letter also mentioned that our neighbours suspected foul play, believing the owners of the adjacent paddy field might have used chemicals to kill the tree.

That was already a mature tree when we bought the house and the plot. As children, we were drawn to the tree as it was full of flowers and cashew apples, each bearing grey nuts at the end. The cashew tree stood tall at the south-eastern corner of our plot, its branches stretching over the narrow road, the house, and the paddy field beyond.

The small paddy field was cultivated twice a year. It received flowing water with several colourful fish through a narrow canal originating somewhere in the east. A father-son duo cultivated the field and fenced it off where it joined the footpath. Our cashew tree was a constant irritant to them during the cashew season. Ripe cashew apples fell into their field, and children would break the fence and rush to pick them up. They destroyed several paddy plants in the process. Despite the duo’s repeated requests to trim the branches overhanging the path and field, nothing was done.

As time passed, violent red ants infested the tree, making it impossible for anyone to climb it. But the children found ways to bring down the fruits by throwing stones and heavy sticks. Crows and squirrels feasted on the fruits throughout the day. Some crows would fly off to nearby trees with fruits in their beaks to enjoy the bounty at leisure. The children would then search the ground below and find some nuts with half-eaten fruits. They would pocket the nuts and discard the fruits. At night, bats took over and monopolised the tree. Hanging upside down, they would suck the fruits dry and drop them down with nuts intact at the end. My siblings and I would get up early in the morning and search the ground in the light of hand-held kerosene lamps for nuts.

There were cashew processing factories a few miles away. Vendors would visit houses with cashew trees and buy nuts, later selling them to
the factories. As long as the tree bore fruit, we received no pocket money from our parents.

On full moon nights, we would parch the nuts in a fire built with dry twigs and leaves. Once the outer shells of the nuts were fully charred, hissing from the oil in the shell, we would take them out of the fire, allow them to cool down, remove the shells by beating them with stones, and savour the kernels after removing their covers. Now, all those memories will remain just that—memories.