Casual Conversation: The Season of Tamarind Trees

The tamarind trees around my house bear ripe fruit from March to May, lasting throughout the summer. Since childhood, I've had a distinct season—spring, summer, autumn, and winter—and that is the season of the tamarind tree.

When I was a child, there was a tamarind tree in front of my house that was taller than the roof. The world up there was vast and high, beyond the reach of a child like me. Only the older boys in the house were allowed to climb it to pick fruit when needed for making sour soup, jam, or to pick unripe tamarind for snacks, or to harvest ripe tamarind…

From that large tamarind tree, many saplings have sprouted and been selected and preserved in suitable locations: along the side of the house, in a corner of the backyard.

From the time the tamarind tree flowers until the fruit ripens is about 8 to 10 months. Harvesting ripe tamarind isn't simply a matter of waiting for the fruit to fall and picking it up – that way, the quantity would be very small, sparse, and difficult to preserve all at once. We also rarely use long poles to knock down ripe tamarind because we lack the strength, it's time-consuming, and there are areas we can't reach. We have to climb to the top of the tamarind tree, stand firmly on our feet, hold on tightly to the top, and shake vigorously and continuously to make the ripe tamarind fall. The sounds then are like a multi-layered symphony: the rustling of branches and leaves, the popping and thudding of the dry, ripe tamarind against the gentle, melodious breeze.

When I was little, all I got to do was stand under the shade of the tamarind trees in the courtyard, holding a basin or basket, and look up. Up above, the older boys would shake the branches, creating a continuous shower of ripe tamarind fruit that fell onto the courtyard. My mother was afraid the heavy tamarind would hurt my head, so she kept reminding me: "Wait, wait until it's over before you pick them up!" But what child wouldn't be eager to stand under that "rain"!

Once, I secretly climbed to the highest branch to savor the unripe, tangy, thick-fleshed tamarind fruits with their firm, slightly astringent but delicious seeds. I sat there, eating and gazing at the clear blue sky. When my parents saw me, they were horrified, but didn't scold me immediately – they were afraid my trembling hands would cause me to fall. After hearing a few sweet words, "My darling son, come down, Mommy wants to tell you something…", I quickly climbed down and… received a good spanking along with a lecture: "Climbing too high will lead to a fatal fall."

This beating was similar to the first time you sneaked away from your mother to swim in a deep river, crossed a busy road on your own, or ran off to fight with other kids—intended to instill a lesson about preventing accidents and injuries. But that beating also silently marked a milestone in the youngest child's development: they had learned to climb a tamarind tree.

As a child, I was eager to climb tamarind trees, but the older I got, the lazier I became. Tamarind trees are tall and rough, and every time I climbed them, it left marks on my arms, chest, and stomach… Plus, the intense summer sun made me hot and itchy all over – you should shake the tamarind trees when it's still sunny, as the fruit stems will be more brittle and easier to fall off than when it's cooler.

Every time my parents brought it up, I'd make excuses about being busy with this or that, avoiding the topic for days, even weeks. But seeing the sad, regretful look in my mother's eyes, I had to reluctantly climb the tree, at least once a week, until the tree was out of fruit season.

I shook the branches, and my mother, hunched over, meticulously picked up every single fruit. For her, even the smallest fruit was the result of her and her children's hard work, and a treasure for the whole family. She peeled the ripe tamarind, dried it in the sun for one or two days to remove the flesh, and then stored it in jars or plastic bags. She didn't sell it; instead, she divided it among her children who had moved out or gave it as gifts to neighbors and acquaintances near and far.

Ah… It turns out that when I was lazy, Mom wasn't sad because she regretted losing the tamarind, but because she was afraid she wouldn't have anything to give.

Another tamarind harvesting season has begun.

Source: https://thanhnien.vn/nhan-dam-mua-rung-me-185260411190740716.htm