Operation Fruitstorm: Kerala Edition

Where Mangoes Fall, Jackfruits Stick, and Squirrels Judge

What’s tastier—mango or jackfruit?
Lately, my tummy’s been debating that with growing urgency.
It’s happy, yes… but also very, very confused.

Between the guavas, bananas, mangoes, and jackfruits it’s been receiving, it’s behaving like someone who just got promoted. Big perks. Bigger desk. Total chaos.
That’s my tummy right now: excited, overwhelmed, and mildly betrayed.

You see, it’s one of those years.
The harvest gods went into bonus mode.
Trees are bursting. Mangoes are falling like confetti. Jackfruits are popping out like it’s a family reunion.

Even the squirrels, normally fierce competitors, seem politely stunned… nibbling in moderation and letting us humans take our share.

A few days ago, some close relatives casually said, “We can’t step outside… mangoes are falling non-stop.”
Classic Kerala understatement.

The squirrels were hosting fruit conferences.
The jackfruit trees were showing off like peacocks.

So, after a family engagement ceremony, we detoured to their house in Mavelikara.

We’d almost missed mango season this year… life happened.
There was the engagement, a wedding, some travel, and of course, a long drive across Kerala.

Now, if you’ve never driven through Kerala, picture this: no real “villages,” just one long, chattering ribbon of homes, cousins, shops, banana chips, and the occasional philosophical pothole.
You don’t drive through Kerala. You converse with it.

Anyway, we reached the house.
And yep… mangoes were raining, jackfruits were hanging like medals, and the squirrels looked positively sugar-high.

After serving us jackfruit ada (a steamed cake made with jackfruit pulp, rice, and jaggery), jackfruit halwa, and jackfruit chips… along with piping hot coffee… our hosts headed out with a knife and began the great deliberation:
Which jackfruits to pluck?

One by one, they cut down the fruits, swatting away those tiny mosquitoes that always find the one spot you forget to scratch until it’s too late.

We prepped the car boot like seasoned smugglers.
First, a plastic sheet. Then, layers of newspaper. Each jackfruit stem wrapped lovingly like a leaking parcel.

People say nobody reads newspapers anymore… but trust me, when it comes to protecting your car from sticky fruit juice, no app or website can compete with a good old newspaper.

We packed up everything that wasn’t nailed down… mangoes, jackfruits, wild jackfruit, and even breadfruit.

The squirrels watched us like shopkeepers during a clearance sale… resigned, mildly judging, but too full to protest.

And just before we drove off, we dabbed ourselves with aftershave to soothe the itches from the bites.

There’s something joyful… and humbling… about cutting fruits fresh off the tree.
Sure, supermarket fruit is clean and convenient.
But this? This was a ritual.

The chaos. The laughter. The stickiness.
It reminds you that food doesn’t just come wrapped in cling film.
It comes from trees, from people, from effort… and a little love.

And somewhere in this juicy chaos, between the sweetness, the nostalgia, and the squirrel side-eyes, I had a thought:

Yes, the fruits of labour are sweet.
But the fruits of labour, when shared, are sweeter.
Stickier. And way more fun.

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Let’s pause for some jackfruit appreciation.

Jackfruit trees are quiet givers. No drama. No flair. Just fruit.
Sometimes, they even lower their bounty to your level, like a tired friend saying,
“Here. You probably need this more than I do.”

I saw a few jackfruits so close to the ground, it looked like they were trying to escape.
Or maybe they were just exhausted from being sticky.

Ah, yes… stickiness.
If you’ve ever cut a jackfruit, you know… It’s not just a fruit, it’s a commitment.

The white sap doesn’t drip. It clings to your soul.
You slice, you regret, you wash your hands 14 times.
You ruin a knife or two.

And somehow, it’s still worth it.
Like many sticky things in life.

Fun fact: In school, my nickname was Chacka… jackfruit in Malayalam.
Not because I loved the fruit. Just because my surname is Chacko.
Kids are inventive like that.

But I didn’t mind.

Jackfruit isn’t glamorous.
It doesn’t have the smooth charm of a mango.
But it’s generous. Honest. Unapologetically itself.
Like some people I admire.

Now mangoes… that’s a different story.
That’s a romance.

Summer holidays in Kottayam were golden… and so were the mangoes.
I’d run around all day, and my aunt would sit beside me, slicing them… neatly, lovingly.
The best slices were always mine.

The squishy, overripe ones?
She’d quietly eat those herself, all while playfully chatting with me.

Once, I asked her why.

She smiled and said,
“They taste better.”

I didn’t understand it then.
I do now.

Some things are beautiful precisely because they’re not perfect.
Like a lopsided mango.
Or a quiet person who gives away the best bits without a word.

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On the way back from our fruit raid, we stopped over in Kottayam with Amma.
She handed us guavas. And a monstrous bunch of bananas. And a few papayas.
As if our car wasn’t already a tropical cargo train.

Now, my wife’s been distributing fruit like we’re running a tropical NGO.
Friends, neighbours, unsuspecting visitors… everyone walks away holding something.

It’s funny how something shared with us kept getting shared forward.
And though we didn’t sow anything, we reaped the joy and goodness that comes from passing along what we had.

Eventually, the car began to lose its jackfruit scent.
The windows were down. Sprays were sprayed. Things were finally starting to smell… almost normal.

That’s when my apartment decided to join the party.

Apparently, the smell followed us home like an over-enthusiastic houseguest who just couldn’t resist one more visit.
Now the curtains, the cushions… even my dreams… faintly jackfruity.

And maybe that old school nickname, Chacka, wasn’t so bad after all.
Maybe I’ve always been a sweet guy.
Or at least… a little sticky around the edges.