those deceptive kiwis

I spent most of my little girl days eating suntala in the sun. Or pondering over the brilliance of a grape that can be so multifarious in providing a fruit experience; those unassuming balls just bursting in the mouth with so much flavor. Regular fruits filled most of my childhood.

I may have known of kiwi as a fruit, but it was more the name by which we called New Zealand cricket players. A real kiwi rolling in the tongue and bursting into flavours blue and wild is not something I'm used to.

But let me tell you the most exciting thing that has happened in my household this past year. It is also called the story of kiwi.

So we have a kiwi plant in our teeny, weeny vegetable garden. My father toiled for days trying to figure out how to get - what do you call it - the mating of kiwi plants done. Balla talla he found a he ho ki she plant and got them to mate. And months after that three little kiwis showed up tuplukka on the jhaadi covering our wall.

The kiwi triplets soon became the talk of our neighbourhood. Bua's friends would come over, sit on the lawn next to the kiwi ko bot and talk about it with the same gusto with which they talk of politics. Some of them came and took pictures. They were the first kiwis of the entire housing colony in which I live. There was a lot of contemplation about what was to be done to the kiwis when they did ripen. There was talk of having a photo shoot, of putting it on a puja ko thaali and just doing some puja-suja to it. One of my neighbour aunts suggested that we invite everyone from the colony, put the kiwis on display for everyone to look at, and serve other fruits for them to nibble on while watching those kiwis.

As if aware of all this drama, the kiwis took their time getting ready for slaughter. After hanging from the jhyaure grove for over four months, the triplets showed no signs of ripening. They were as stiff and inedible as stones. You could hit them with a small hammer and easily they would fit into the shoes of percussion instruments. My parents had already tried eating one as soon as they'd picked it, but realized their mistake. So we waited for the remaining kiwi twins to get ready for us.

the adorable pair. parents ate the third one while i was out of town. saboteurs. 

 Over at my cousin's house, kiwis had grown by the bundle and already been delivered into satisfied bellies. But we waited and waited. Every day in the morning, as soon as I went into the kitchen for my daily dose of warm water, I would inspect those pale, green looking fruits. With each passing day, I was more and more doubtful that these objects were actually fruit. They seemed more like the manifestation of nature's desire to taunt our family.

After almost two months of lying on our veggie rack, the kiwis finally gave way to some softness. I decided I would cut them, but by now, anything less than a ceremony would be really sad.

Even with ceremony, it was kind of sad. By now, I was expecting nothing palatable to come out of that stubbly brown skin. Plus the fact that we were trying to eat them without letting the rest of the town know - after all the drama that had already surrounded the kiwis - made me feel slightly guilty as well.

Nevertheless, I did get down to work. And when the kiwis were ready on the plate, they glistened with a shine that suggested that they weren't going to taste that bad after all.

And they tasted awesome! Kasto meetho! All that waiting and pining for those two kiwis (shared within a family of five, how many slices did each of us get?) was worth it. They turned out to be ali ali amilo, ali ali guliyo and altogether refreshing (after two months of being picked, I fail to fathom how).

Can't wait for next year when - hopefully - the kiwi yield will be a little better.

 

different renditions of the caterpillaring trail of kiwi slices