The Coconut Vendor

I get off the back entrance of the bus, and look in the direction of the mass of people awaiting entry passes to get into SEEPZ, then dodge honking cars, rickshaws, buses, and people, and head for Krishnadas’ stall, the Keralite coconut vendor who sells tender coconuts sourced from Mysore in Karnataka on the footpath that runs along the wall fencing off SEEPZ from the traffic. On the wall behind him Krishnadas has nailed a small, framed picture of goddess Durga astride a tiger, and carries out his business under straggly branches that reach over the pavement from behind the wall which fences off SEEPZ from the outside world.

When I squint incomprehension on hearing him pronounce the name of the place he hails from in Kerela for, it sounded like Palghat, Krishnadas smiles at me and says, “Not Palghat. It is Palakkad, T. N. Seshan ka gaon. Main uska gaon ka hai,” he says with discernable pride, referring to the legendary Tambram Election Commissioner from Palakkad who doggedly took on the Indian politicians and is largely credited with significantly cleansing Indian elections of unbridled corruption and large scale thuggery. Tamilian Brahmins are nicknamed Tambrams, and are widely known for their intelligence, academic brilliance, and accomplishment in the arts. Down South many will credit their achievements in academics and the arts to ‘oh, it runs in their genes.’ That may well be the case.

“Palakkad borders Tamilnadu,” Krishnadas explains. In the 1700s, Palakkad saw a migration of Tamil Brahmins from the border districts of Tamilnadu. It was a large migration considering that Brahmin population in India is significantly lower than other communities making up the Hindu majority.

I lean forward to make out Krishnadas’ voice over the noise of traffic in the morning rush hour.

“Kaunsa chahiye? Pandrawala? Choudawala? Ya terahwala?” (‘Which one? Fifteen rupees? Fourteen rupees? Or the one for thirteen rupees?’) Krishnadas asks me in Malayalam accented Bambaiyya Hindi as I look at the mini mountain of green coconuts piled up on a makeshift table, and try to make sense of them by their sizes. To his left a shoe-repair vendor carries out his business from under a tarpaulin cover held in place by two bamboo poles placed between two pairs of stone blocks that were road-dividers not too long ago. The tarpaulin is strung to the wall by two coir strings tied to two rusting nails. To his left, a barber has set shop. His mirror hangs from a nail in the wall and faces a wooden chair. I’ve rarely seen the chair empty.

“Give me a paani wala, with some malai (white pulp layer),” I tell Krishnadas, asking for a tender coconut with fair amount of coconut water, and some sweet taste to it. Without malai, tender coconut water tastes flat, almost sour. He nods, casts his eye about the pile, picks one up, taps it, then places it on his knee, and taking a shiny, narrow-bladed knife from the three placed on a jute rag spread on the coconut pile, he proceeds to chop the coconut expertly with short, quick slashes, turning it over with each slash, exposing the upper part of the shell. Then he exchanges the knife for a broad-bladed one, and gently taps the exposed upper part, tracing a narrow circle as he rolls the coconut around in his open palm, eventually splitting it with a hard tap of knife before lifting the upper portion with the steel tip. Two office-goers step up to his cart, their identity cards dangling from their necks, IT workers.

He manages to sell over 150 coconuts each day. “I get them for Rs. 10.40 each, only occasionally do they reduce the price by twenty paise,” he tells me. “About 4-5 coconuts turn out bad in each lot. Then twice a day, I have to give two local policemen tender coconuts to drink for free.”

The bright orange tika on his forehead contrasts sharply with his dark skin. He replenishes his supply of tender coconuts daily; a truck with Karnataka number plate, ferrying coconuts from Mysore, stops by and offloads coconuts. “Sometimes they supply more, so I do not take in a fresh load the next day,” he explains. Tender coconuts left over from the previous day are sweeter; the pulp layer having thickened and hardened slightly, but if left longer the coconut water reduces in quantity and turns into malai, losing its sweetness. “Pandrawala nariyal kam jaate hain, din mein pacchas ke karib,” he says. “Log therawala jyaada lete hain.” (‘The coconuts priced for fifteen rupees do not move fast, only about 50 get sold each day. People prefer buying those priced at thirteen rupees’).

He passes me the coconut and a plastic straw. I turn to face the mass of vehicles heading down the road as I take a deep drag of sweet coconut water and swat at flies circling empty coconuts piled up in an open plastic tub on the footpath, and on his makeshift table fashioned from planks sourced from discarded wooden crates. The flies are feeding on tender kernel. I forget for a moment that I’ve tasks to complete as I lose myself in the cool of a hot day.