Abbey's Pineapples!!

What drops into your mind when you think of ‘Pineapple’? Do you get images of the sun soaked beaches of some tropical paradise? Maybe visions of hula dancers in grass skirts with orchid wreaths and leis caressing the crisp salty night? Maybe your senses are awakened by cocktails in coconut shells or curries in pineapple shells? How about some good old pineapple rasam or Thai fried rice with pineapple? Perhaps grilled slices of pineapple with a dash of rum? Or fresh cream pineapple pastry from sweet chariot in Bangalore? Hmmm…all things food and tropical, really!!

I love pineapples!! I enjoy smelling a ripe one in a grocery store or the local farmer’s market. Even when I hold the prickly fruit to my nose to smell its ripeness, my taste buds get tickled. I enjoy placing it in my fruit bowl in an aesthetic way, juxtaposing all the other fruit around it. It forms a nice visual treat till it’s eaten. I enjoy looking at the crown of the pineapple remembering the ‘flower arrangement competitions’ at school when some one or the other made a beautiful flower arrangement with a pineapple crown for a centre piece. I enjoy the sweet fragrance of the ripe fruit wafting through my kitchen, begging to be put under my loving knife.

And then as I break off the crown, slice off the ends and deftly slice through the thick spiky skin, I am reminded of the many times I have watched my father do the exact same thing. We’d always hope that the fruit was sweet and not sour, if it was not sweet enough, we’d coat it liberally with sugar. The crunch of the granulated sugar sweetened the fruit and brought smiles to our eyes as the juice dribbled down our hands and chins. When dad saw how quickly I could cut up a pineapple he was awestruck!! My precious dad, surprised by even the simplest things I do!! The pineapples are always sweet here…the growers even guarantee it.

As the juice flows onto my hands and then to the cutting board, I think of the many times Hubbs and I used to walk to one of the many “Ganesh Fruit Juice Centre”s just to get a couple of glasses of pineapple juice. We’d always drink some, then pack some for later and drink it with lunch or dinner. I also remember the push carts back in India, with ochre coloured ananas nurturing flies and dust. The sticky juice makes my hands even more slippery.

As I make long incisions along the rows of ‘eyes’ with seeds and gently cut them out in strips, I am reminded of the cold coffee shop kitchen where I hacked countless pineapples each morning. My good friend Deb would toss a piece of watermelon or cantaloupe into my mouth and I’d toss a piece of pineapple into his mouth. I don’t know where Deb is now, or who he chops fruit with anymore. I make pretty diagonal patterns and quickly quarter the fruit and slice them into bite sized chunks. For the thousandth time I wonder if I am the only one who likes the hard core.

Finally when my cutting board, my precious knife and my hands are all washed and dried, I ignore the fork by the bowl and take a piece with my fingers and bite into the succulent sweetness. The acid sweet taste explodes in my nostrils before flowing onto my tongue, flooding my mouth with intense flavour. The juice dribbles a bit on my chin and as usual I giggle like a school girl. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and reach for the second piece while still chewing on the first one. If I am greedy for any food, its fruit…I can’t live without fruit. And while munching I think of my childhood, yet again.

In fact, every time I see a pineapple, I become a little girl. I remember the forest floor crowded with wild pineapple plants flanking the slippery path down the little hill. We’d have to go through horizontal logs of wood that served as a gate of sorts before starting our hike down the hill. The trail was a narrow one, bordered by ferns, poinsettias, cannas and birds of paradise, and it winded steeply through a coffee plantation. The red berries would look splendidly sweet against the dark glossy leaves. The sunlight would filter down in strips and straps through the tall teak and silver oak trees. Dad would show me the coffee berries and clusters of green pepper on the vines. Mom would show me the turmeric, ginger and cardamom plants, teaching me how to differentiate between them. And every now and then she’d stop for a bit to scan the dark roof above. When she did spot an orchid, she’d clap her hands in glee and we’d squeeze our eyes trying to imprint the shapes and colours of the orchids on our minds. The path had remnants of a few footholds in the garb of a dilapidated set of steps. As we carefully picked our way towards the bottom of the hill, the thunderous roar would get louder and nearer. And at the end of our little hike would flow one of the most famous attractions of beautiful Coorg – the Abbey Falls. The cascading water was breathtakingly stunning and surprisingly warm.

I am talking of years before the small hanging bridge there was built, when there were no crowds of tourists competing in screaming contests with the monkeys around. I hate it when tourists scream, its so disturbing!! There used to be a few logs of wood on which we could walk to the other side of the river if we wanted to. And I recollect the very first time I went there, when I was barely 3 or 4. At the sight of so much water, I was ready to jump in and splash it all away when mom’s firm hand restraining me had spoken volumes of the dangers that lurked beneath the bubbling brook. We had sat on the mossy rocks and ma had showed me graceful slivers of black and silver – water snakes. She put her index finger close to the surface of the water and moved it around and at the scent of blood, leeches came like little blood starved sharks, moving ever so gracefully along with my ma’s hovering finger. They craned their little bodies towards hers in hopes of a drink… Ooooh!! That gives me goose bumps even now!! Everyone around got plenty of leach attachments, all except me.

Dad and his friends would carefully stick the bottles of beer into the water, securing them within the boundaries of rocks and pebbles, while Ma and her friends would find ant-less spots for the picnic. There were places where the leeches and snakes would not come and after a few years, my parents were as good as the locals at finding the right places, so I would splash around in the designated areas. The water pounding on my head would make me deaf and giddy. The rocks beneath my bare feet so slippery and smooth, the chirping and crying of birds and insects and animals all around, the extraordinarily feathery ferns and colourful caladiums – so many varieties….I remember it all. Strange how my eyes saw everything so differently at that age! I guess that’s the age when I took my first photographs – with my eyes. The prints are permanently etched on my mind.

I revisited Abbey Falls in 2000, after 16 years, with my new husband and some friends. I am glad the owner of the estate has left it open to tourists and still collects no entry fee. Abbey Falls is in a private coffee estate. The local Kodavas insist on calling Abbey Falls, Abbaey Falls…and that’s what it is called even now.

A lot has changed – it’s noisier, dirtier, hotter, strewn with plastic and paper, the coke bottles and lays packets a reminder that India is way more global than we can ever imagine… too many stems of ferns, coffee and spices are broken and disfigured, too many birds have given up hope for peace and quiet and moved on to denser parts of the forests. The trees and rocks have ugly memoirs of decades of travelers and revelers. But the pineapple plants are still there – the silent prickly clusters of crowned sweetness, yielding delicious and juicy moments of silent pleasure.

4 yrs ago, as I sat on a huge rock close to the waterfall, the spray soaking the skin on my neck and face, I noted that the leeches and water snakes were not around. Perhaps they were fearful of a more dangerous enemy – man.

Pina Coladas anyone???