'Nungu', the bearers of summertime joy

For the past 15 years, M Subashree has spent every summer waiting with her heart in her mouth under the palm trees. Her husband M Marimuthu climbs the trees to bring palm fruit. The couple sells the fruit on the pavement at the entrance of Kalakshetra Road. “I don’t take my eyes off him one moment,” says the 35-year-old, as she slices the shiny black shell that holds three of the fruits. The city’s roads have several such men and women from nearby villages selling the fruit during the summer. Farm hands, daily wagers, cooks at small eateries… most of them do menial jobs and sell palm fruit for three months a year.

“We get the nungu from Koovathur near Kalpakkam,” explains Marimuthu. He works as a daily wage labourer during the rest of the year. “I learned to climb palm trees from my father,” he says. There are safety gear to support the climber; but out there, he is by himself. “I’ve encountered snakes, scorpions, and bees on top,” he explains. But the fruit fetches him the much-needed income — “I save it to spend on my children’s education,” he says, which is why he takes the risk and will do so till he’s physically able.

Marimuthu sells a dozen of the cream-coloured fruit for ₹50. The smaller fruits, tinged with pink, are soft; the sweet water inside, although just a mouthful, is precious. One spends several minutes peeling the delicate skin off the fruit such that the translucent meat is not torn and the water is still intact before biting in.

P Amala sells the fruit on St Mary’s Road, accompanied by her husband and brother-in-law. Seated next to a plastic bucket filled with nungu, she looks on as her husband E Palani scoops it using a sickle from inside the black shell. He cuts in a little deeper, squirting water into the air. “We’re from Melmaruvathur,” says Amala. Her husband doesn’t climb trees, which makes her depend on professional climbers. “I reach their house at 3 am and wait outside the door,” she says. “This is so I can catch hold of them before they step out of home.”

Amala and her husband come to the city only during the summer. It’s not something she looks forward to. “See, it’s difficult for people from the villages to survive here,” she says. “Yesterday, a man asked me for change for ₹2,000 and took off on his bike after I handed him the money,” she says. “That was our day’s income. We couldn’t even chase him. He was too fast.” Since the couple don’t have a mini van of their own, they spend around four days on the pavement by their nungu until it is sold out. “I can’t wait to go back home,” says Amala.

E Parthiban and V Loganathan are a happier lot. They sell at Besant Nagar and are laughing and chatting as the former cuts and the latter packs the nungu. “I’m a parotta master during the other parts of the year,” explains Parthiban. The duo sources the fruit from Mugayoor in Cheyyur taluk. The 26-year-old doesn’t climb the trees, but knows all the climber jargon. “The thala is a rope that loops the feet, and the potti is the sickle that we use,” he says.

“Some 15 years ago, I attempted to climb a palm tree,” he laughs, filling a plastic bag with nungu. “But I had a bad fall and broke my back. Never again, I decided,” he adds. Loganathan tells him, “Hurry up now,” and Parthiban responds through his teeth, “I will, I will.” “Is that for someone important?” we ask, judging from the way the two fuss over the order. “Yes,” Parthiban chuckles. A policeman marches towards him importantly and asks, “Are they all big ones?” He walks away with the nungu, without paying for it. Parthiban and Loganathan look on, without uttering a word.