Hens fret and strut about the reed and mud huts before meeting their fate in a festive cauldron. Mud pots ‘grow’ out of every stunted toddy palm they say slake the thirst of a day’s labour and fill the night with the drumbeat of abandon. They sashay past with a self-assured swing, a chatter of berribboned sparrows as they go to water and weed, pluck and pack in the orchards. Walk down the winding country road and smile at the curious women-rural cliches in their short ‘towel’ wraps above which rise their bare midriffs and bosoms. These orchards smell of the resins of the trees. Wake up to the cock’s crow and open your eyes to a canopy of dark chikoo leaves. Things to see and do? The answer to this is ‘nothing’. The land was as forgiving as it was yielding. Grandchildren went away, lured by city jobs and the promise of golden opportunity abroad. Those who followed old Mr Irani acquired and tamed their own sprawling acres. Chikoo fruit The house of the man who first brought chikoos to this area still stands near Dahanu Railway Station, the lush acres flourishing in the care of his grandsons. With their own input of hard work, they were certain that it would sustain them, as it had their fore-fathers back home. Some set up tea shops in Mumbai, but the more intrepid fanned into the interior, confident that land was land, even if in an alien country. This tough, if rustic, race had been impoverished by discrimination in their native Iran and they too made the journey that their fellow Zoroastrians, the Parsis, had made nearly a millennium earlier. As an environmentalist, she would have fought such desecration anywhere, but in the Gholvad she had an emotional stake, as these chikoo orchards had been planted by the Iranis, many of whom had cleared the grass-covered tracts with their bare hands when they had arrived here a hundred or so years ago. Her feisty Irani genes made up for whatever she lacked in the ‘warrior-queen’ department. Then Nargis Irani descended on my office like a Persian army. I had no idea of the deep, dark groves that lay beyond the pedestrian platform. I had passed Gholvad several times on train journeys to Ahmedabad-quaint, sleepy stations characterised by locals selling small baskets of just-picked fruit and bundles of lemongrass and peppermint leaves with which Parsis flavour their tea. Literally, I discovered this unbelievable idyll just a 3-hr train ride away from Mumbai, when the equally incredible Nergis Irani launched a one-woman crusade against the thermal power plant being set up by the Bombay Suburban Electric Supply in Dahanu, the chikoo bowl of Maharashtra. Serve topped with a scoop of vanilla or chikoo icecream Some background on the Chikoo: This is a story about a place made interesting by a fruit Bachi J Karkaria It is the ultimate laid-back experience, but for me it started as a power trip. I find the sweetness of the chikoo is enough for me Put all of above in a blender and blend till frothy.
#Chikoo fruit in english full#
If you are lucky they have chikoo! Rita Jamshed Kapadia Serves 1 1 cup / glass of cold milk Hand full of Ice 2 Chikoo fruit – peeled and pit taken out Suger if needed. The fruit milk shake laarivala has a stall with many fruits and are ready with their blenders to make a juicy milk shake on demand! Mango, Chikoo, Banana, Strawberry and whatever is in season. I used to enjoy this cooling and filling drink while biking back from school. SeptemSeptemBy No comments Chikoo Fruit and Milk Shake is sold on the streets of Ahmedabad, India.