THE WAY IT WAS: Wretched common things —Mian Ijaz Ul Hassan
No one can cease to be amazed looking at Amaltas in bloom. How can it be in
such ease, bear burning heat in peace? It is equally amazing to discover
uncommon virtues in wretched, uncommon things, be it men or common trees
May is the season of Amaltas, which remain in bloom till end of June. This year
because of the stormy weather, the dangling clusters of their flowers have
withered before their usual time. Amaltas were at their best when the
temperatures were unexpectedly touching 43 degrees centigrade. They love hot
weather — hotter the better. Like most of us they don’t long for the cold
Monsoon breeze. They are totally at peace with themselves and their habitat,
like the poor farmers who need to cut wheat sitting on their haunches in the
sizzling sun.
In the old days there were not very many Amaltas trees in the city. In recent
years some good person — God bless him for it — has gone about planting them
all over town. The result is the annual invasion of gold and yellow in the early
summer months. Almost every part of the city is now populated with them. In some
areas rows and rows of them line the streets. Even in the browner parts they
make their cheerful presence known by leaning over an old brick wall, surprising
the commuters at a dusty road-turning, peering from behind a group of mulberries
or flaunting their colour in “katchi abbadies”.
Amaltas is bit of a show off. It can afford to be. There is no other tree with
such abundant inflorescent flowers. Gull-e-More are far too few to compete. The
Gull-e-Nishtar are too restrained. Before the sixties, Gull-e-Nishtar, also
called Kesu and Flame of the Forest, added considerable colour to Davis Road
where they formed an elegant avenue leading from the Mall to the Simla Hill.
Most of them have died of old age, the remaining have been cut down to provide
parking space for commercial buildings.
The other trees that bloom annually in Lahore are the Kachnal and the Sumbal.
The Kachnal gives gorgeous blossoms that have a striking resemblance with
orchids, which are so highly prized and are now grown at great cost in our
country. If you know how to cook, Kachnal buds with mutton and a handful of peas
makes a delicious dish. Unfortunately in a home with taste for subtle flavours,
the Kachnal tree is seldom allowed to blossom. It must be remembered that the
white Kachnal flowers taste better than the pink or the light mauve ones.
Sumbal flowers, on the other hand, are fleshy and can weigh up to a quarter of a
pound. That is why one never sees people resting under a Sumbal tree. The flower
is truly proportionate to the awesome size of the Sumbal but can easily knock
out a person if he were hit on the head.
Culinary etiquette and good manners require that I must acknowledge another
plant. It is an unobtrusive tree and bears rather sickly looking clusters of
small white flowers that make excellent “saag”. It is a trifle bitter in
taste, but so are the “karelas”. My mother calls it “bata” but when the
flowering is over it begins to bear bunches of thin long pods called “rawaan
de phallian”. Mostly these thin long pods are pickled but I hear in some
places they are also picked and eaten. The Bata tree also provides a supplement
for ginger, or “adrak”. In the Saraiki belt of southern Punjab and northern
Sindh its cuttings are planted in fields. Once the cuttings have sprouted and
grown into young plants they are ready for harvest. The plants are pulled out of
the ground for the succulent roots that have a sharp pungent taste, similar to
ginger. It is not amazing that a common tree should be able to provide us with
clusters of white blossoms for “saag”, “phalians” for “achaar” and
roots to flavour our food and yet the Bata tree lives in relative obscurity
while people rave about upper class imported plants that have to be raised like
poodles.
It seems that even plants have classes. Those that are local and common, and can
grow easily without much fuss are kept out of the gardens designed by our
landscape architects. The Dharaik and Bukain, that bear such lovely small blue
flowers with an incredible sweet fragrance, are considered only good for
providing shade in the summer to animals and the poor working types. The Shisham,
the Kikar, the Beri or Shareen are too common to be allowed into a garden. If
they trespass the gardeners know what is to be done to them. I can understand if
some residents do not like to have a Beri in their compound since it invites
urchins to throw stones when it is in fruit. But the Shareen is a different
matter. It bears fluffy flowers that exude a heady scent in the Monsoon season.
It is at its best on a hot, damp evening.
Common trees cannot be found in posh localities but in villages and, like stray
dogs and beggars on road sides, the dry dusty strip between metalled roads and
private property They are always at peace with themselves, bearing their
lifelong trials with mystic forbearance and fortitude. Cyclists and pedestrians
cut off their greenest twigs for “muswaks” used for cleaning teeth and
massaging gums. The “Sukh Chan” tree “muswaks” are in great demand but
the thick “waan ke muswaks” are the bristles of the modern toothbrush. The
Kikar, an ascetic among trees, never complains when it is stripped of its bark
to provide “dandasa” for the village maidens to freshen their breath and add
a touch of reddish hue to their gums and lips. The more inventive and
resourceful ones use its bark to blend their brew. They say if you are looking
for “thara” proceed to the village that has Kikars freshly denuded of its
bark. This may not be true any longer because times have changed and men have
become devious and you never know from where they have procured their bark.
No one can cease to be amazed looking at Amaltas in bloom. How can it be in such
ease, bear burning heat in peace? It is equally amazing to discover uncommon
virtues in wretched, uncommon things, be it men or common trees.
Prof Ijaz-ul-Hassan is a painter, author and a political activist