Samrudhdi Kerkar
Summer brings with it the sweetness of childhood memories. As sweet as ripened mangoes, kokum, cashew apples and wild berries that we eagerly awaited each year. It is the season when the air turns humid and heavy, yet moments spent with cousins, grandparents and family feel like a soothing breeze on a weary soul.
This is when mango and cashew trees are laden with blossoms, their fragrance filling the air. In Goa, villagers walk through their cashew plantations with sticks and buckets in hand. Today, cashews have become an identity of Goa. Yet, they are not native to the land. They came from Brazil and are believed to increase heat in the environment. Unaware of this, generations of Goans have woven cashews into their lives, forming a deep connection with these trees.
My grandfather once bought land for a cashew plantation at the foothills of Vagheri. Visiting our plantation, Kajini, was always an adventure. It was not easy to reach. One had to cross stretches of forest, almost like a long trek. People might wonder why anyone would choose land so high in the hills, but for us children, the journey itself was the joy.
I would walk alongside my grandmother, who lovingly pointed out every place along the path. After passing a few neighbouring plantations, we would enter a patch of forest. A narrow trail lined with Okambo trees would lead us to Biramnachi Rai, a serene sacred grove that stood beside our land. It was our landmark. Reaching it felt like arriving.
My grandmother had deep faith in the grove. She often spoke of seeing leopards there. Her stories filled me with quiet excitement and a wish that I might one day see one too. Sometimes, if allowed, we children would make the journey ourselves, climbing trees, watching birds and feasting on juicy cashew apples.
As the years passed, my grandparents grew older, and so did the trees. Our visits became fewer. Once, after many years, we returned to find just one tree standing, alone yet vibrant, bearing bright red cashew apples as if welcoming us back. The last time we went, there was nothing. The land stood silent and empty. With our busy lives and without my grandparents’ care, the trees had slowly disappeared.
Yet, the memories remain. That land was never just a plantation. It was a place that held our childhood. I still remember our last gathering under the shade of the cashew trees, with the entire family together. I remember Baba walking tirelessly up and down the hill, caring for the trees as if they were his own children. I remember my grandmother’s deep attachment to the land, as though it were part of her being.
This year, on my Aai’s birthday, we chose to return. We decided to celebrate it there by planting a sapling of Aamla, the Indian gooseberry. As we began our trek, a Malabar great hornbill flew across the sky, its wings cutting through the air like a quiet welcome. Birds accompanied us along the path, and even the humid air felt calm that day.
We followed the familiar trail past the Otam tree and Biramnachi Rai. And there it was, our land. Bare, yet waiting. We have now decided to restore this space by planting native and medicinal trees, allowing it to grow into a small forest. A place where my grandparents’ love and care continues to live on. We hope that, in time, this patch will grow into a dense forest, offering shade and comfort, just like the love my grandparents gave so selflessly.
