A Hankering For Tal

Most prized for its luscious ripe fruit called tal— intensely sweet with a bitter edge—the palmyra tree is beloved for its many culinary uses across the subcontinent.

TEXT Ishita Dasgupta PHOTOGRAPHY Emli Bendixen

A sudden fit of nostalgia is all I can blame for paying such an eye-watering price for a pair of ripe tal fruit. It was the first time I had seen tal, let alone ripe tal, available here in the U.K. Despite my reservations, I placed an order online. They arrived packed in corn starch, peanuts and newspaper. I unwrapped them carefully. Deep purple, almost black, the rounded fruit were heavy and had a sour tang, their leathery skin split in places.

“Eh ma! They saw you coming,” my mother said in disbelief, when I FaceTimed her to ask how to prepare them.

Extracting the pulp took patience and effort. The cap of sepals was easily removed with a twist and the kernels prized apart; the skin then stripped away, leaving the fibrous orange mesocarp exposed. Some fruits give up their contents easily. Others need coaxing. These were the latter kind. But after soaking them in water, massaging the kernels and using a grater, almost a litre of pulp sunnier than Sunny D filled the bowl.

Ripe tal has a flavour similar to overripe pumpkin, with hints of melon. At times cloyingly sweet, it has a bitter edge, which for some may be too much. Hanging the pulp in muslin drains away some of the bitter-tasting saponin compounds and may be tempered further by adding jaggery. Thickened over a low heat, the pulp is then ready to use. The first thing I made was taler bora or fuluri, a sweet fritter using the pulp to bind a mixture of wheat and rice flour, grated coconut and jaggery. Best eaten hot and crisp.

I made kheer next, reducing whole milk over a low heat, checking it regularly so it did not catch and burn. To this, I added grated coconut, jaggery and tal, then reduced the mixture further. Whilst the kitchen filled with the caramel fug of cooked milk, I made a paste of sweetened rice flour, tal, coconut and toasted semolina, which I parcelled up in banana leaves, tied with string and steamed to make pitha. In West Bengal and Bangladesh, these pitha are filled into cones made from glossy jackfruit leaves. But sadly, I had none at hand. My biggest regret was not reducing the kheer further to a thick fudge to fill patishapta (or rice flour pancakes) or to dip taler luchi (deep-fried flatbreads made with maida or refined flour and ripe pulp). Even so, with each bite, a fevered connection to stifling humidity and the longing for rain broke across my tongue.

"The fruit are large, around 25 cm in diameter. They have a leathery skin that is deep purple, almost black, with an acid green ombré when unripe. It turns bright orange at each pole when ready to drop from the tree."

Found in coastal and semi-arid areas across South and Southeast Asia, Borassus flabellifer or the palmyra palm is a familiar sight. Shooting skywards with a burst of fanshaped leaves at its crown, it dominates the landscape. The palm is perhaps best known for its sap, used to make sugar or toddy, which gives it two of its many names.

It has a multitude of uses: the leaves for thatching, basketry, and mats; the fibre from the leaf base for brushes and cordage; and the trunk wood for construction and furniture. The classical Tamil poem, Tala Vilasam, documents 801 ways in which the palm may be used, earning it the title Katpaha Tharu or Celestial Tree.

It is the versatility of the fruit, however, which fascinates me. Each palm can bear as many as 6 to 12 bunches with up to 50 in each cluster. The fruit are large, around 25 cm in diameter. They have a leathery skin that is deep purple, almost black, with an acid green ombré when unripe. It turns bright orange at each pole when ready to drop from the tree.

Unripe tal fruit, known variously as nungu, nonku, tadgola, talsansh or ice apple, appear in summer just before the first mangoes of the season arrive. Street vendors are found within cities and on roadsides across India, skilfully cutting the woody exterior of the fruit with a billhook or machete to reveal the seed sockets inside. Translucent, with the texture of lychee, they contain a sweet cooling liquid at the centre, which has a light coconut flavour. A refreshing antidote to the heat.

Chopped into pieces, ice apple is often added to sharbat, where it is usually combined with sarsaparilla and lime, or mixed with cold milk sweetened with pistachio or rose syrup. Another popular way to eat it is in payasam, scattered with cashew or chironji seeds and served chilled. Chef, food writer, author and broadcaster, Romy Gill, grew up in a Punjabi family within Jamshedpur, a steel township in West Bengal. She remembers seeing the avenue of palms on the edge of the town being scaled for sap and to cut down fruit.

“I wasn’t keen on the texture of talsansh but liked it in sharbat or added to kheer. We would also eat it in a chutney made with raisins, fennel seeds and dried chilli. Sometimes it was sliced and flattened, dipped into a light batter made from besan, fried and eaten with rice.”

Talsansh (ice apple in Bengali) is sought after in West Bengal, and many a Bengali will tell you how it inspired the jolbhora sandesh, a famous sweetmeat made from chhena or sweetened curds produced from acidulated milk. Jolbhora sandesh is then pressed into distinctive, seed socket- shaped moulds and filled with liquid gur (jaggery) or rose water.

However, it is ripe tal that is very much prized. Harder to find within the city and rarely exported, ripe tal does not travel well. Full of natural yeasts and with a high sugar content, it begins to ferment quickly in the heat. The skin, prone to splitting at this stage also makes it liable to spoil. From the stories of my elders, the best ripe tal must be collected as soon as it falls from the tree.

For Hindus in the region, the ripening fruit coincides with some auspicious dates in the religious calendar. Sweets like taler bora, taler malpua and taler kheer sandesh—using thickened milk rather than chhena—are often made for Janmashtami, the celebration of the birth of Lord Krishna. This is followed by Tal Nabami, observed during the waxing phase of the moon during the month of Bhadra, which

spans August and September on the Gregorian calendar. Dedicated to the goddess Durga, this is the day when preparations begin for Durga Puja, still a month away. Traditionally, married women observe a fast and tal-based confections are made as offerings to the goddess.

Along the coast in Andhra Pradesh and neighbouring Telangana, sweet fritters are made with ripe tal or thati munjalu, using rice flour. Grated coconut may or may not be added along with a little cardamom powder and palm jaggery, depending on the sweetness of the pulp. Fried in discs they are called thati burelu.

When flattened with a hole at the centre like a ring doughnut, they become thati garelu. This batter may also be cooked in an oiled, lidded pan, over a low heat. The resulting cake, thati rotti, is thick and spongy with a sweet, slightly charred crust. Sometimes, a batter is made using rice rava or coarsely ground rice with the texture of semolina. Mixed with scraped coconut and steamed, it makes thati kudumulu or idli, imbued with the distinctive flavour of the fruit, often eaten at breakfast. Further south in Tamil Nadu, ripe toddy palm fruit or panampazham, is often roasted over a flame. The scorched and blistered skin is pulled away and the bright orange pulp eaten straight from the fruit, like a particularly fibrous mango stone. Here and along the south coast, the pulp is also made into a fruit leather. When the weather allows, the pulp is left to sun dry for a few days, spread out onto steel platters or on mats often woven with palmyra leaves. Brushed with coconut oil and stored in rolls, they may be eaten as is, or used to enhance other dishes. The pulp may also be mixed with liquid jaggery and dried, resulting in something sweeter, which is carefully folded into blocks resembling glycerine soap, and cut into lozenges to be eaten like candy.

On her blog, Pâticheri (paticheri.com), anthropologist Deepa Reddy has chronicled the process of making panaattu, as the fruit leather is known in Tamil. She uses the deep amber curls to make thambuli, and paani panaattu, a jammy preserve. Here, pieces of fruit leather are added to palm jaggery molasses with coconut and parboiled rice suspended within it, flavoured with cumin

and dried red chillies. Spicy with concentrated flavours of ripe pulp and a slightly bitter aftertaste, paani panaattu is often eaten as a sweet treat. Reddy also suggests using it as an ice cream topper or as a base for chilled soda.

The journey of the fruit does not end there. Split the hard kernels from the ripe fruit open and the jelly-like seed sockets are replaced by a sweet “meat” that has the crunchy texture of water chestnut and can be eaten in the same way as coconut. Spent kernels, their pulp extracted, may also be buried in the ground and left to germinate. My mother remembers this from her childhood: the kernels dug from the garden at her grandmother’s house in time for Kojagari Lakshmi Puja, and the brilliant white sprouts offered as prashad.

Ripe tal that is damaged or split may be used for another delicacy—sprouting tubers that are called gegulu or panam kizhangu. Buried half a metre deep in sandy soil, they are left for up to 100 days, after which they are dug up and the sprouting tubers cut away from the kernel. Steamed, boiled or roasted before eating, the fibrous outer layer is peeled away revealing a pale yellow edible part with a woody stem at its centre that must also be removed. Arranged in baskets, radiating like a sunburst, they are sold street side as a snack.

In Tamil Nadu, where most of India’s palmyra grows, and where it has been recognised as the state tree since 1978, this tuber is popular. Chennai-based food writer, Apoorva Sripathi, has few fond memories of panam kizhangu, having been forced to eat them for their health-giving properties when unwell as a child. Her father Sripathi, however, loves them. But he says they are harder to find nowadays.

“We’d have a seller come around on a cycle, with the roasted panam kizhangu in a cane basket on the back. It’s full of carbs, so it’s pure energy, but nourishing and filling,” Sripathi said.

Having never eaten the tuber myself, the flavour seems quite difficult to describe. When pressed, he says: “It’s unique tasting really, but if I had to compare, it’s similar to the sweet potato here without its cloying sweetness. Taste can’t be described by mere words; it has to be understood by eating.”

The sprouting tubers are versatile too. Ground with lentils, they are used to make thuvaiyul, a savoury chutney eaten with idli, dosa and rice. Coarsely grated, they work well in puttu, a dish usually made of steamed, ground rice and coconut. The puttu kudam—a tubular utensil—is filled with alternating layers of ground rice, coconut, and palmyra sprouts, eaten with a side of jaggery. Steamed or roasted tubers may also be dried and ground into flour called pulukodiyal and used in many ways, including sweet and savoury laddus, idli and vada.

Raw tubers may also be split and left to sun dry until hard. Known as odiyal, they may be eaten as is, chipped, or

ground into flour. Sri Lanka’s Jaffna peninsula is an arc of land that stretches out towards the Palk Strait and where most of the country’s palmyra grow. Historically, this is also where most of the country’s Tamil population has lived. Palmyra plays an important part in the food landscape, and whilst it is eaten in many forms, here, odiyal flour is widely used.

The best-known dish featuring odiyal flour is odiyal kool. Usually a Sunday speciality, which is also eaten during social occasions, this hot and sour broth full of seafood is thickened with odiyal flour and bulked with brown rice. The cookbook Handmade, published by Palmera, a not-forprofit organization based in Australia, shares recipes and memories from women who experienced Sri Lanka’s civil war at close quarters. It contains this description of the process of making kool:

“Traditionally, the kool pot would be placed in the centre of the group. Cleaned and polished half-coconut shells (kottaangachi or thengai chirattai) would be used as bowls to drink the chowder…It is difficult to beat the ecstasy of slurping kool from a kottaangachi.”

In recent years, the number of palmyra palms in India has been in decline. Areas such as Palakkad in Kerala, where the trees were once synonymous with the landscape, have slowly changed in character. Some blame the decline on the ban or restriction in certain states of toddy, the naturally fermented sap that has been enjoyed as a mildly alcoholic beverage and used in cooking for centuries.

It used to be a familiar sight from March until June— avenues of palm trees scaled twice a day, cuts made at the base of the flowering inflorescence, covered with earthen pots or bamboo containers. Collected in the evenings, the sap that was left to ferment during the heat of the day, was sold by street vendors or from toddy shops. The cultivators of palms could once lease out their trees for sap harvesting and fruit at a good price, but rents are now low and tree climbers difficult to find. Tree climbers are getting better paid, less risky jobs elsewhere, and are often reluctant to return.

The lower demand in palmyra products has in turn led to changes in land use. More can be earned by growing coconut, rubber, cashew or oil seeds, and palms are often cut down to make room. Disinformation that the trees might contribute to drought conditions have also hastened their removal in some areas—after which they are often sold as fuel for brick kilns.

Palmyra, however, thrives in deep, sandy or well-drained soils, happily surviving in areas of low rainfall. Relatively disease-free, the tree needs little looking after, and its roots, which grow vertically into the ground, help stabilise the soil and prevent erosion. The roots also raise the level of groundwater, helping with irrigation. Planted alongside aquifers and riverbeds, they can improve water circulation and reduce flooding. Palmyra palms also lend themselves

to intercropping, growing well alongside cowpea, moringa, mung, Bengal gram, jujube, amla, pomegranate and guava.

From the late ‘70s onward, Palm Boards were set up across several Indian states to protect the tree and spread education about it. An area of focus for the boards has been the diversification of palm products, bringing them in line with modern tastes and appeal. For growers, however, it is the sap that earns the tree its keep. The average tree produces 150 litres of sap during tapping season, with female trees producing up to 50 percent more. The Palm Boards have also suggested promoting neera or pandaneera, or unfermented toddy palm sap. Collected before sunrise, it is a lightly sweet, cooling liquid with a trace of coconut flavour, which is said to have many healthgiving properties. Fermentation happens quickly, so pots are coated with slaked lime to prevent it. The product is filtered or pasteurised to prolong shelf life.

In conjunction with the Palm Gur Cooperative Societies (a collective of manufacturers of palm jaggery), the Palm Boards also recommended increasing the production of

jaggery or gur. This again uses unfermented sap, a litre typically yielding between 180 to 250g of jaggery. To make gur, the sap is thickened in wide pans over wood fire. The resulting mahogany-coloured syrup is poured into moulds and set into cakes.

Since the 1950s however, white sugar, which was more expensive and seen as refined in both senses of the word, gained in popularity and use. With some notable exceptions, jaggery and gur made from palm sap began to fall from favour. Already struggling under British rule following the development of Indian cane sugar, this industry, led by rural and Adivasi communities, was further impacted.

In a piece for The Economic Times, “Why Gur is Not Glamorous for Indians,” journalist Reshmi R. Dasgupta wrote: “Perhaps it will get a cachet of exclusivity when western chefs ‘discover’ jaggery.”

In the U.K., panela or sugarcane jaggery originating from Central and Latin America, certainly seems to be having its moment. As people learn more about the impact of refined white sugar on health, it has fallen from its former pedestal. Many across the globe are attempting to reduce their sugar intake and seeking less-refined alternatives.

Once abundant and widely used, palmyra jaggery is now however harder to find, which is reflected in its price. Currently, white sugar averages Rs 40 ( approximately $0.50) per kilo, while palmyra jaggery costs around Rs 240 ($3) per kilo. Scarcity creates exclusivity and often drives demand, but only the fair remuneration of growers and producers will safeguard the future of palmyra and its products.

Thankfully, there are many trying to reverse this decline, including farmers and cultivators refusing to cut down trees and reappraising their economic and environmental value. Chennai-based volunteer group Panaigal Kodi and Madurai-based Palmyra Nation have been planting saplings with support from the state government.

The Tamil Nadu Toddy Movement, which represents farmers, toddy tappers and toddy shops, is challenging the ban imposed on the centuries-old drink and lobbying for review. Palmyra also remains a key crop in the All India Coordinated Research Project (AICRP), a pan-India agricultural research project, with centres across several palmyra-growing states undertaking a variety of research.

Shaping the geography and culture of India for millennia, the palmyra palm has also left an indelible mark on me. I feel generations of hands in mine, laboriously preparing the vivid pulp and offering up its bittersweet splendour. Aptly named, the Celestial Tree will surely survive yet.