The Last Leteku Tree
A tale of Childhood and Change
At our village home, it was time for my grandparents’ duporiya nap.
And for me, it was time to get ready to sneak out. To the fringe of the forest, my usual adventure. My heart would race as I tiptoed past Koka and Aita, their gentle snores punctuating the quiet. My destination was always the same: the Leteku trees. The tangy, golden fruits were my post-lunch treat.
(Assamese terms: Leteku - Burmese Grapes, Koka and Aita - Grandfather and Grandmother, Duporiya - Afternoon.)The forest was alive, teeming with a magic that only children and poets can truly understand.
Birds sang in a chorus, leaves whispered secrets, and somewhere in the canopy, a family of macaques chattered like old friends gossiping. I was too small to climb the Leteku trees, but I had friends in high places - quite literally. The macaques had become my allies in this afternoon escapade.
It started one summer day when I sat under the Leteku tree, staring longingly at the fruit hanging just out of reach. A young macaque, perhaps sensing my plight, dropped a fruit right into my lap. I looked up, startled, locking eyes with my new friend. I decided to call him Tiku. Now each afternoon, as the sun pierced through the forest like a thousand golden swords, Tiku and his family would drop a few Letekus for me. In return, I would leave them some ripe bananas or jackfruit.
Years flew by, as they always do. I grew up, moved away, and my visits to the village became infrequent. Life, with its relentless march, carried me far from those enchanted afternoons. But the memories remained, vivid and sweet like the Leteku itself.
I returned to the village two decades later for Koka’s* funeral. The house was filled with mourners with their hushed voices. The air was heavy with loss, and I felt a deep yearning to go for a walk in the forest. I needed to see it, to find solace among the trees that had been my sanctuary.
As I walked through the familiar path, the forest seemed quieter, as if holding its breath.
When I reached the edge, my heart sank.
Where the Leteku trees once stood, there was now an industrial plant. Its cold, metallic structure sat heavy on the chest of the forest. The air was thick, with the acrid smell of machinery, and the songs of birds were replaced by the hum of engines.
I stood there, feeling an ache that was both old and new. The magic was gone, replaced by a harsh reality. I wondered about Tiku and his family. Where had they gone? Had they found a new refuge, or had they been swept away by the unforgiving tide of progress? Tears welled up as I imagined the fear and confusion they must have felt as they witnessed their sanctuary being destroyed.
The forest, with its wild, untamed spirit, had been a part of me. And now, standing in its place, was a stark reminder of how much we take and how little we give back. As I turned to leave, a solitary Leteku tree caught my eye, standing defiantly at the edge of the clearing. It was a small, resilient reminder of what once was. I walked over and picked a fruit. Peeling it gently, I took a bite.
It tasted bittersweet, much like the memories.
I whispered a silent promise to the forest and to my lost friends, vowing to remember the magic and to fight for the wild places that still remained.
I took out my handkerchief and collected as many seeds as I could from the fallen fruits. As I walk back to the house, I carry with me seeds for tomorrow and a renewed sense of purpose.
For in remembering the past, we find the strength to protect the future.
Burmese Grapes, or Leteku (in Assamese), are delightfully sweet and sour. Often compared to Mangosteen, their texture is reminiscent of lychee, though they are less juicy and more fibrous. This exotic fruit, cherished for generations, is now becoming increasingly rare, adding to its nostalgic allure and cultural significance. Our beloved bio-resources are disappearing at an alarming rate, and as we witness the rapid decline of our ancestral resources, the urgency to act becomes ever more critical.
Do your bit. Save seeds, share them with local seed banks or plant them yourself. Let's ensure future generations can enjoy the fruits of our heritage.
By preserving and planting these seeds, we not only protect the biodiversity of our planet but also keep alive the rich traditions and stories that come with them. Every seed carries within it the promise of tomorrow and a connection to our past.