Anoop Khajuria
The Western Himalayas cradle the Chenab River, a silver thread that gracefully descends to Akhnoor, a tranquil town nestled in Jammu region. Here, the river’s pace slows, as if in quiet admiration of its own sunlit reflection, where time is measured not in hours, but in ripples.
Winding past terraced fields and ancient temples, the Chenab carries the hush of snowmelt and the echoes of folklore. In Akhnoor, it transcends not being merely a river; it becomes a living spirit, vibrant with history and shimmering with serenity. A gentle breeze whispers through the chinars and willows that fringe its banks, while distant hills seem to hold their breath in reverence. From golden dawn to deep indigo dusk, the Chenab mirrors the changing skies, a fluid canvas of light and longing. To witness its flow through Akhnoor is to glimpse eternity-quiet, majestic, and profoundly beautiful.
Akhnoor holds a special place in my heart, as it is the town where my mother was born, and its splendid lanes and by-lanes, dotted with old houses, became my ‘Nanihal’-my maternal grandmother’s abode. My childhood memories are filled with the charm of its inhabitants, the delicious Udo Halwai’s burfi, the quaint, dilapidated post office, and the small, yellow mangoes with golden hues, locally known as Desi Amb. These local mangoes were sweet, fragrant, succulent, and utterly delicious.
The river and the Desi Amb shared an almost umbilical connection. Sellers from nearby villages, their baskets overflowing with mangoes, would throng the main road passing through town. Buyers, familiar with the sellers’ faces, could discern the quality of the mangoes they carried from their respective villages. My cousins and I would stroll through these small morning bazaars, engaging in playful banter with the sellers we knew so well. “Which tree in Amb Gharota village is this basket from?” we’d ask. “When will you bring mangoes from the Panchayat Ghar trees? Please tell me when you’ll harvest from the lower mango grove of Daskaal village?” After a brief negotiation, the hard-won bounty would be carried to the river and submerged in the icy waters of the Chenab. The river, then, served as a colossal refrigerator-nature’s most generous gift to the town dwellers. By noon, the mangoes would be perfectly chilled, plump, and ready to be savored with lunch, often accompanied by stuffed tindas and karelas. I can still recall the taste and fragrance of these tiny delights.
My innocent childhood dreams were filled with visions of mango trees laden with juicy fruit. Though my taste buds reveled in the sweet-smelling pulp daily, I longed to visit the villages and see the mango trees themselves. One day, my wish came true, and we journeyed to Daskaal, a village near town, abundant with mango trees.
And there it was-the dream mango tree, offering the sweetest mangoes. Perched like a quiet guardian on a gently raised knoll at the edge of the village, the old mango tree stood vast and venerable. Its gnarled roots curled over the earth like ancient fingers gripping memories. Time had weathered its bark into deep furrows and creases, as though the tree bore the wisdom of monsoons long past and summers soaked in childhood laughter. Its canopy stretched wide-a green cathedral of thick, whispering leaves-casting dappled shade that cooled the earth beneath like a hush in the midday heat. Branches hung heavy with fruit, each mango a golden promise swollen with sun and sweetness. Some had ripened to a molten hue of amber and honey, while others blushed green, hiding their ripeness like secrets. The heady, rich scent of ripening mangoes perfumed the air, drawing bees, birds, and barefoot boys alike.
I joined the village children who would often scamper barefoot up the gentle slope, eyes wide with mischief and hunger, their hands sticky with juice before the fruit even touched their lips. Women carrying pots on their heads would pause beneath its shade, their gossip curling in the warm air like incense smoke. Even the village elders, slow in step and heavy with time, would glance at the tree with the reverence one reserves for old gods. It wasn’t just a tree-it was the heart of the village, a monument of memory and sweetness, rooted in soil and story alike.
Fifty years later, I often wonder: Are those mango trees still surviving? Or have those mighty trees that bore hundreds of succulent fruits been sacrificed on the altar of urbanization? Has anyone attempted to preserve the unique combination of Daskaal mango genomes? Perhaps the tree may have proliferated in a distant land. But since then, I have never tasted such sweet mangoes again.
Nature, when left undisturbed, continuously generates living entities that bloom to their fullest and then die to be regenerated. The combination of characters carried by genes mixes and recombines, giving rise to unique new varieties. Yet, we often neglect to protect these treasures while exploiting every part of the plant. I wonder if the Ambaraan mango tree could have been protected, much like the Siddu jackfruit tree in Seegenahalli village of Karnataka. This farming hamlet has become famous due to Siddu, a celebrated mother plant that is now bringing fortunes to 42-year-old S.S. Parmesha, who earns ?1 crore with the grace of this tree.
Siddu, the tree, bears approximately 500 fruits in one season. With its coppery flakes, sweet taste, and high nutritional value, it is unique to the area. However, the ?1 crore income isn’t from the fruits themselves, but from the 30,000 saplings derived from the tree. Siddu is patented under the Protection of Plant Varieties and Farmers’ Rights (PPV&FR) Act for 18 years. This patent grants Parmesha exclusive rights to multiply the variety, sell the saplings, develop a market, distribute, and export the variety. It also allows him to extend permission to other individuals and organizations to do the same, but with a royalty.
It all began when Parmesha’s cousin gave him three jackfruits. He sowed the seeds, and although not all germinated, the one the family transplanted at their farm eventually bore copper-colored fruits. The turning point came two years ago when the tree was severely struck by heavy winds and a thunderstorm. To save the plant, they planted 50 saplings of the tree developed from the mother plant through bud grafting. The rest, as they say, is history. The vigorous demand for these saplings throughout Karnataka has brought immense prosperity to the family.
The bounty of nature, rich in biodiversity, still holds innumerable secrets waiting to be unfolded. Siddu is just one example. We have numerous such fruiting trees with unique properties. Siddu found compassionate hands, while others are yet to be recognized. The Ambaraan mango tree could have been saved had it received similar care, allowing generations to enjoy its fruits. However, when faced with challenging times, people cruelly cut down such trees for their wood. In these changing times, with ever-increasing global temperatures, the loss and damage of species have escalated manifold. Disastrously increasing landslides, heavy rains due to cloudbursts, and floods are further eroding the footprint of rare plant species. It is high time that we evolve curriculums in our education system for appreciation of vast biodiversity, foster compassion in people for vulnerable species, protect them, replicate them, propagate vigorously so that the nature’s bounty can be saved for ourselves and for future generations.
The author is a green film maker and member Asia-Pacific group of Journalists and Broadcasters.
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