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Journalism of Courage
For hyperactive boys there couldn8217;t have been a better thirst-quencher or hunger-dispeller. And, thankfully, it grew in wild profusion in Munnar8217;s tea estates, sustaining us on our long rambles in the woods during our holidays. To us children the luscious passion fruit was absolutely irresistible; the mere mention of it made our mouths water. Braving bloodthirsty leeches, we would burrow deep into the undergrowth to pluck the oval-shaped purple fruit, filling our pockets until they bulged. Emerging, we would hastily dust off the creepy-crawlies and nettles. Then, wedging the fruit between sweaty palms, we would crack it open and greedily slurp up the sweet pulp and pips, smearing our cheeks yellow in the process. And, back home after a tiring trek, what could be more refreshing than a big glass of syrupy passion fruit juice? It was pure nectar.
Sometimes we scooped out the fruit8217;s innards, laced it liberally with sugar and reserved it for dessert 8212; provided a hungry sibling didn8217;t swipe it in the meantime! Or Mum would convert the fruits into a lip-smacking preserve 8212; only to see us polish it off far too quickly. With four ever-hungry siblings and their pals on the prowl, we seldom had our fill of passion fruit.
Now nudging 62, I still relish the fruit but in moderation. It grows extensively in my compound 8212; an evergreen reminder of my childhood 8212; and my neighbours and friends savour it too, seldom seeming sated. Has the passion fruit been so named because it whips up a passion for it?
