Planted in the '20s Malgoba tree

 

The magnificent 130 odd year old Malgoba tree 

In one corner of the compound grows Grandpas Malgoba tree. Its not a graft, its a monster tree as were trees in the time before man invented grafts. He was a Karnataka man in his choices of mango trees and thats truly lucky, that he used logic to choose and not emotions like I did, choosing trees for my Hoskote Bella Vista. The Malgoba and the Raspuri are Karnataka brand mangoes and Hayes road was never short of any sort of fruit ALL the year round with his gardening skills.

So, every time we came down from Delhi or Shillong where Dad was posted, we came to a fragrant smelling house. The smells of ripening mangoes and jackfruit, avocadoes and custard apples wafted through the open store room door into the house. For me a fruitarian, it was heaven to be able to eat as many fruit as I wanted. Dad was a very strict Dad,a typical service man and insisted that I eat  "ONLY One"of whatever I was wolfing down. But Grandpa heard him instruct me and called me to him and said "You can eat as many mangoes as you want. Mangoes are here to be eaten not to be given to the servants." That was music to my ears and shamelessly I would bring out the biggest and juiciest for Grandpa to cut open for me. It was a grand ritual. He would call out for a quarter plate and one of the servants would come scurrying with it wiping it on his towel.

So few now as the bats make a meal of them every night

Then like a maharaja that he was, he would slowly wipe the blade of his special mango knife and very deliberately carve out the cheeks from the seed. Each mango was over a kg in weight so you can imagine how much flesh there was in the cheeks! Then Grandma would take over cutting the cheeks into cubes and turning it inside out. "Come my girl!" she would say and I was hoisted into a chair by a helper next to them and with a spoon I relished every single cube of mango, while they watched me indulgently! Thats what grandparents are all about! Those are my memories of my wonderful grandparents who spoiled me rotten on both sides, both in Bangalore and in Baroda.

Our Raspuris in Hoskote which are delicious as well

Then came my farm in Hoskote which I bought from Davids French teacher -- Miss Davenport. It was rubbish piece of land which I paid a princely sum for, by saving from my school fees that I made from my pre-school nursery. I bought and registered it on their word, before I saw it, in my impulsive fashion not realising what one person calls a farm would be a barren piece of land water less for me. I cried when I first saw it, but then as is my usual fashion, taught by my resilient parents -- make the best of what you have and work towards what you want.

After 30 years we have a Shangrila which has been decades of hard work and savings pumped in. The mango trees that I have are all grafts. Dad insisted that I bought and planted ONLY grafts and I did from Lalbagh. At the time Mallika was all the rage being a Karnataka hybrid. So I have mallikas and raspuris. I was stupid not to plant malgobas like grandpa did. I might be a mango queen today.

Thickly flowering  Mallikas

From the 2nd year itself they began to flower and fruit and we get literally tons of mangoes now. But my heart is with the malgoba as I have memories of eating them with my grandparents. They are nowhere as delicious as they were as the poor tree has been chopped in half while building the apartment block. The roots are below concrete so we do NOT feed it like my trees are fed and fussed in Hoskote. The poor thing manages valiantly unlike the other tree on the other side of the gate which had Dads orchid collection blooming on it. People who walked on the road looked in and admired his Blue Wanda and golden yellow Paleanopis, brought from Shillong.   

 The car is loaded like this at least 10 times!

Today we bring car loads of Mangoes from the farm and since I am diabetic I cannot misbehave sadly and eat only mango for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sadly I can eat only ONE fruit for the day which is also not good for me. The house is redolent with the smell of ripening mangoes during the season like the old bungalow was and memories of my parents and grandparents who have given us what we have today come flooding back -- and I am grateful.

Mango jam with hardly an sugar in it.

Now since my own grand children live abroad I scoop out the flesh and freeze cartons of mangoes for them.  Then when they arrive, like they did recently they sit down to glasses of mango lassi and mango ice cream. Arthur just eats it plain and says its as good as eating a mango. He also loves the jam lathered on his chapatti. Nat is a fruitarian like me and enjoys any and every kind of fruit. Waiting now for the Americans to arrive. Andy loves fruit like his Mum and often I have carried chickoos and mangoes for them. They enjoyed the malgobas with their grandparents in Hayes which was a second home for them and so the tree has seen FOUR now FIVE generations of Furtados enjoy its fruit.

"Ofcourse you are half Furtado,"I tell them and they smile at me indulgently as they know the memories that I hold of my childhood here in Hayes. My name might has been stupidly changed but I am so glad today that my DIL have not felt the need to do what I did. They are proud of being Cardoza and Cutinha and rightly so.

A scam too close for comfort.

 

                          Flowers in the farm

It was an ordinary day that dawned when my alarm went off at 6:15 am. I pulled on my trainers, laced them up and was off for my run. Returning as is my regular routine I took the 2 liter bottle of water from Gogoi the security and went back up the road to water the two Rosea trees we had adopted. Its my regular routine to help them grow --  Thats another story for another day.

               Bougainvillea ablaze over the main wall in the farm.

Coming back I found Narsimappa my man from the farm with Naveen his son come to do a few chores in the building garden which our building maali is too lazy to do. Trim the Gul Mohur branches and the crazily growing sandpaper vine which had climbed up the tree. 

The tabibuea in Baldwin Girl's School

Coming home the rest of the day seemed panning out to be the same, quiet and unhurried as I had finished my cooking and I needed to get the second chapter of my new book done. Mani the helper had left and I went into the kitchen to collect my glass of mosambi juice I had left in the fridge to chill. As I passed the dining table I saw Greg my husband sitting and making some notes on sheets of paper and talking to someone. I did not pay too much attention and went back to my writing.

My son Andys Dogwoods infront of his house on Dogwood lane

Probably half an hour later I went out again to grab some chilled water from the fridge when I passed Greg talking earnestly to someone. I over heard him say -- I began working when I was 21, so I thought he was talking to a friend. But after swallowing the first sip of water I realised it was a really weird conversation as now he was telling the person what his address was and then his bank accounts and then----  when I heard his FD's which even I did not know I sniffed something really stinking.

Adeniums on the terrace

So I walked up and asked what it was all about and he put his finger on his lips and said shuuush! Its the CBI and they are investigating me for some fake fraud case. WHAAAAT??? I said -- what case -- and the man on the other end demanded that he did not allow any one in and it was private and confidential as he was helping him extricate himself out of the mess. THAT was when I KNEW this was a scammer. I insisted on Greg cutting the call as I was able to see what he had written on some sheets of paper. Apparently a case of Money laundering and human trafficking had been slapped on him because of a courier he sent from DHL..

   

The garden in Golden Arch

WHAT courier from DHL I asked?? Where have you sent a courier from DHL?? But he seemed scared and  said just go away, I have to go to Delhi if I dont sort it like this. Sort what I asked?? The next thing I saw him running to his cupboard and giving the person on the other end more bank account  details. He was even telling him details and amounts of what FDs he had which even I dont know. Thats when I decided which police officer would ask all these questions and I will call a real police officer to sort the issue. As usual he would not listen to me, so I HAD to get help.

  Epsom salts brought by David has helped the bougainvillea to flower profusely

I called Francis Colaco who had helped me out of a fake case foisted on me a few years earlier. He immediately said tell Greg to cut the call and dont give any more information. But Greg was already too far sucked in and refused to cut the call. I was pretty desperate by then.

Just give your phone to him said Francis if he is not listening to you. Thankfully I did with the other guy still on speaker. "Francis speak to Greg there's a scammer on his phone and we need to catch him," I said loudly. Hearing Francis voice Greg snapped out of his crazy daze and need to give his details to the scammer and I was able to cut the call.

Organic brinjals thriving in the farm.

I have no idea how they get peoples numbers said Francis but you should cut the call as soon as a person starts talking about your cash and savings. No police officer will ever ask you all that. It happened in minutes as thankfully my gut feel said there's something wrong going on here. The questions were too crazy and personal and when he said private and confidential even your wife should not know, I was sure there was something wrong. 

I have often wondered reading stories in the papers about senior citizens being scammed and when I saw it happening in my own home, right infront of me, I had never felt such fear before. It seemed like the scamster had some hold over Greg and he was refusing to listen to me. Finally it was Francis who shut the call down and I insisted Greg went to speak to him. I even called his elder brother to talk some sense into him.

 We ARE in a dicey spot as he has given out too much sensitive information so we have to be wary. I have to be doubly wary as obviously these scamsters know exactly whom to target.

It's chickoo time in Hoskote

                           This year is a BUMPER crop!

As children there was a chickoo tree planted in the back of the property by my grand father. He was a great gardener as the garden boasted of every conceivable fruit tree our hearts desired. After Dad took over the house, he rented it to a jockey family, as we lived in New Delhi, since Dad was posted there as an aeronautical engineer. The woman of the house ran a dairy farm in the back of the property, making lakhs of rupees selling the milk to all the big hotels in the city. However the potent urine  of the cows disturbed the fruit trees and the chickoo tree in particular stopped fruiting.

Our 25 graft chickoo trees in Hoskote.

Then Dad was able to get them out of our home - ofcourse they did not want to leave since they were enjoying such a huge property for little or no 'çaretaker' rent. Finally with the help of lawyer Rego and several desperate appeals as a serving officer to  New -Delhi, Dad got our home back and we moved back in. As usual they were powerful people so kept us hanging, but finally truth won in the end, but it was a tough fight for Dad. 

A one year old graft is already fruiting!

So,  to go back to the chickoo tree that stopped fruiting in the garden -- my mother began a preschool in a building erected at the back of the house. The chickoo tree was saved and it stood there alongside the sandpit which my mother had made for the babies to play in. The babies played near it shouting and screaming aound the tree and the next thing we knew -- the barren tree was loaded with fruit! Dads stand about the trees being happy --seemed to come true. Even though we scoffed at his reason as kids.

The FIFTH picking this year from Hoskote!

Then came our farm our beautiful Bella Vista and I listened to Dad and bought ONLY grafts from Lalbagh of the cricket ball and oval varieties. We planted them and they grew over the years giving us just one or two maximum pickings. THEN we began our Sustainable Living classes for many schools for free in the farm 2 years ago. That brought in hundreds of kids who had never seen chickoos growing on trees. They screamed and played games around them and to my great surprise Dads words have come true in our farm-- the trees are happy with the sounds of kids around them. The branches are groaning with the weight of the fruit on every single tree!

 

                   Girls from Dream Foundation

Dads words are vindicated.  Yes truly the trees are happy with the kids around. The apples are fruiting, the star fruit are bigger, the tamarind had a huge crop, the Bangkok tamarind fruited and yes! they are sweet, the avocados are fruiting and the seetaphal and Ramphal too. Never mind the rash of jackfruit and the amlas both the native and domesticated. The star gooseberries and our mangoes - what Mallikas and Raspuris we get-- I feel sad Dad and Mum cant enjoy them.

The farm is happy and thrilled the kids have come and for the FIRST year I am selling my fruit on whatssapp and they are flying off to excited buyers via Dunzo. Thanks Dad and Mum. There is so much in my life I know thanks to the both of you. I wake every single day saying thank you for your inheritance which has changed my life. 

                  Girls playing inbetween the chickoo trees.

The astounding frescoes of St Aloysius Chapel

                          An astounding piece of art. Can out rival European churches.

I had heard stories about the beauty of St Aloysius Chapel from the Jesuit priests I had worked with in St Joseph's PG College, Bangalore. Truly you should write about it Marianne-- said Fr Praveen Martis who had been my principal and Fr Ambrose Pinto who poached me from the Deccan Herald to start the Media section. Both men said since I enjoy renaissance art and had written extensively about it for the newspapers while I did my Erasmus Mundus in Europe, I SHOULD take a trip.

                     The beauty of the frescoes across every wall and roof.

So telling Everest the driver to wait in the shade of the rain trees we slipped off our shoes and walked into the silent and cool church. How it can be called a chapel is beyond me. Its as big as the St Patricks Church in Bangalore, and much more colourful.  Reluctantly taking off my shoes, as I had just had a mandatory pedicure, I need not have worried as the floors were spotless.

                           Intricate frescoes on the roof!

I walked literally with my mouth open. Such beauty I had seen only in Rome and  Milan, maybe Venice and Turin. None of the glitzy German churches could compare, infact our Portuguese legacy churches in Goa are far superior to the German churches or even Polish churches.

Every inch of the roof is adorned.

 But unlike the European churches there was no literature or any guide to explain the art we were gawping at. We just wandered around and stared and took pictures. All done in the renaissance styles we had seen on our several visits to Rome and other parts of Europe, especially Italy.

Br Antonio Moscheni the Italian  who was the artist.

Born near Bergamo in Italy, in 1854, Br Moscheni was apprenticed under the masters who worked in the Vatican and Fresco art became his passion. In 1889 he joined the Jesuits and painted several churches in Yugoslavia and Albania. He also painted several churches in India including a cathedral in Mumbai. Sadly in 1905 he fell ill and died after falling greviously ill. I personally wonder if the lead in the paint affected him and he finally passed away. We humans are stupid and do not check what can cause fatal illness in us by using different chemicals. Then we wonder how we got cancer.

                               Outstanding art

It was when Everest the driver told us to go to the museum that we went in and got a lot of information. The chapel is so famous because of its frescoes and for that visitors come from all over the world to see them. 

Always give a token gift of cash for the upkeep of the church. And dress with care!

A trip to Mangalore

                                             The Vista Dome train!

"You have to come and see me before I die!" How can anyone be more dramatic?

This was the phone call I received from Chandrahas Kutty a really old friend from my days in Sophia College , Mumbai. I was sent to study in Mums Alma Mater from New Delhi and one of those idiotic Jam Sessions the colleges did -- inviting other colleges to attend was where we met. A long haired hippe looking character in a jubba and Kholapuri chappals. I was just intrigued cause he was top of the class in Sydenham Collage of Commerce but beyond that -- his heathen status put me off.

His father was like mine -- a service man -- in the Army in Delhi. Col Kutty was a Malayali posing as a Mangalorean with his Mangalorean, Lobo wife. Throughout my life I stayed in touch all through the loss of his first wife to asthma in Costa Rica where they lived, to his remarriage a few years later to a Sri Lankan woman.

Bonny wanted his Gadbad and me being diabetic had no added sugar vanilla!

So Steve booked tickets for us on the Vista Dome -  a fancy train which allowed one to enjoy the greenery we passed. It was nothing to crow about -- imagine wasting a whole day in the train from 7am looking at stuff we saw, much better while going to Goa. Anyway the coffee bushes we passed were something different and once in a while a blazing Palash tree in the jungles lifted my spirits.

                                        Gadbad icecream!

 We went to the Summer Sands resort for lunch one day and ofcourse the St Aloysius College chapel and met my old St Joe's college principal Fr Praveen Martis who's the big man there. The chapel needs a whole story of its own it was so outstanding!

Sunbun left a car and driver at our disposal and we roamed wherever we wanted. I hate shopping so that was fine and our beaches in Goa are much nicer, so we avoided the beach. But he took us everywhere for sea food.

Ofcourse we lived in his brand new 15th floor apartment where he escapes to all the time from Delhi's pollution. I wont go back ever cause its still a small one hick town from the days we went with the boys for their Nationals.

Coming back to Bangalore, we took an over night sleeper which brought us straight to the Cantt Station. So much easier than Yeshwanthpur! We jumped into a three wheeler auto and we were home and dry.