A sugar-apple smile
While traveling across the countryside of Andhra Pradesh, and the now Telangana, after a short trip to the Amrabad Forest Reserve behind the Nagarjuna Sagar, my interest got piqued by the colorful fruits and local produce being sold by farmers by the roadside on the highways that oddly streaked the verdant agricultural farms of its hilly, rocky terrain. After having tasted some succulent sugar apples (a.k.a. custard apple, sitafal, or sharifa) on the way, which sufficed to serve as my lunch for the day, my friend, Shoukat, and I regretted not having packed some more for home.
Commonly known as sitafal in this part of the world (sita referring to sita-kal or winter-time; and fal referring to fruit), sugar apples are one of the most amazingly shaped fruits where the many polygonal scales — triangles, rhombi, pentagons, and hexagons — each emanating a tooth-like canine pod within (talk about having a sweet tooth) with a seed enmeshed in a succulent and sugary aromatic pulp, tessellate and converge into a green, pine-shaped, apple-sized fruit. More than the exotic shape, the taste and the aroma are to die for. And contrary to its tough armor-like appearance, the ripe ones are so soft that just a little pressure cracks them open. Though the fruit is not endemic to this region, the rich Andhra soil does render its magic into it.
Sitafal literally translates to winter-fruit. Though divine in taste, it has no connection to the goddess Sita from Indian mythology — though she would have loved the fruit nonetheless.
As we neared Hyderabad on the last vestiges of farmlands before they disappeared into the ugliness of urbanity, mesmerized by the setting sun that segued into twilight and the complete darkness of heavy clouds hovering above, the weather changed as drastically as the topology, giving way to light showers. Oddly enough, we found some emaciated, tanned-by-the-harsh-southern-sun farmers still selling their produce by the roadside. Having missed a few because of the speeding car, I slowed down and finally stopped at the next sight of a farmer selling his sugar apple produce.
I had never seen such big sugar apples, twice the usual size found in grocery marts. We asked him for the price, thinking that we’d probably buy a dozen each. To our surprise, he quoted a measly INR300 for his entire sack — a good 10 kilos of sugar apples! Now, I’d just bought a kilo for INR120 from a fruit vendor in the city a few days ago, so I was amazed at the relatively low price he’d quoted. What was even more surprising was the hesitance in the farmer’s tone when he quoted the price — which could easily be misconstrued as a benign reluctance in parting with his sugar apples — laden with a timidity stricken by the fear of losing customers were he to quote too high. Standing in the rain getting all wet to sell his produce, I could sense the desperation in his eyes before he called it a day. More than the sugar apples or their price, this innocence is what melted my heart, reflecting the hard life these poor farmers lead.
Needless to say, peddled not in the least with the wont of my sweet tooth, we bought the whole sack. As my friend handed him the money (and some change, without any bargaining), the farmer was dumbstruck with a joy of incredulity, finally accepting the money after a brief pause with a diamond-like sparkle in his eyes, and the sweetest of smiles that I’ll never forget — a sugar-apple smile.
