Gal.Gal

The first time I saw a Galgal tree, really saw it, was at a friends cabin in Kasar Devi, it somehow felt oddly familiar.

Bright and yellow like tiny suns, hanging against the backdrop of the Nanda Devi peak. I was very tempted, and after a few curious questions, we - well, mostly I insisted- we pluck some from the tree.

I can be regarded by some as the bearer of bad ideas, but often to people's surprise I turn out to be a memory-maker. My friend, truly kind, obliged, but I think we hadn't accounted for the truly unforgiving thorns that the Galgal tree comes armed with.

What followed next was a lot of manoeuvring, delicate dodging and lunging to avoid the sharp jabs of the thorns, which were placed precisely where you’d least want them to be. Some camouflaged near the broad waxy leaves, while other stood guard right next to the fruit. We tried our best to outsmart the tree, yet we were stabbed a bunch of times. Stubborn as we were, we managed to free a few plump, fragrant ones fresh off the branch.

For what purpose? To make Khatai, of course.

What’s ‘khatai’, you ask?

Well, it’s a traditional mountain-style preparation of citrus fruits, it could be similar to chaat, but it isn’t.

Folks call it by different names depending on where their mountains are - Khatta in Himachal, Kimb Kachaloo in Jammu & Kashmir, Suntala Sadheko in Nepal and Khatai or Sana Hua Nimbu (Nimbu Saan) in Uttarakhand.

You can make a Khatai practically out of any Citrus fruit, but in Uttarakhand the right candidates for the job are Galgal (Citrus pseudolimonum) and Chakotra (Citrus maxima), our mountain Pomelo.

And so, within an hour of arriving at my friend's cabin, I had us climbing a tree, all in the pursuit of food.

But he didn’t seem to mind. It was our tradition, after all. We mountain folk find it impossible to resist a ripe lemon once we spot one. We took our spoils to the rooftop of the house that once belonged to Shunyata Baba (more on that later), made our Khatai, and basked in the winter sun with the grace of a lolling Bhotiya dog.

When I look at a GalGal I think of me.

This entire experience got me thinking, and I uncovered the glaring similarities between us - meaning me and the fruit. If there were a fruit that could encapsulate my being with near-miraculous precision, it would, without a doubt, be the Galgal, Citrus pseudolimonum the venerable hill lemon. It comes from the mountains, just as I do. Its rind is thick, uneven, bumpy to the touch. It reminds me of my own skin, freckled and textured in a way I never thought much about until one day, I ran my fingers across a Galgal and felt something oddly familiar. Not that it matters much. Skin is just skin. A lemon is just a lemon. But sometimes, things mirror each other in quiet, unexpected ways. Peel it open, and the inside is sharp, bright, alive. Not immediately sweet, but not entirely sour either. It lingers on your tongue, makes you sit with its taste for a while before you understand it. I suppose I am the same way

And that particular shade of yellow, like a memory you can’t quite place. It reminds me of something, though I don’t know what, sunshine, happiness, maybe a song. Or a dream. Or a moment in childhood I’ve long forgotten.

"I wonder how, I wonder why,Yesterday you told me 'bout the blue, blue sky,And all that I can see is just another lemon tree."

What I Wanna Do Here on This Substack?

I suppose, in a way, I’m making a Khatai - of the stories I carry with me like precious heirlooms, the half-forgotten whispers of the mountains I have lived with.

A hint of sweet, a hint of sour, but sharp on the tongue, just like the land I come from. A rather small attempt at gathering the spirit of my people, our songs, our unshakable bonds that run deep into our hearts and hold us together, like the ancient roots of the deodar.

I also find myself struggling to make sense of my identity. What weight does my culture hold in a world that changes its norms faster than the seasons shift?

What does it mean to be Pahadi in a world that hums with the rhythm of machines? I live away from home - bread and butter, you see - but only in distance, never in heart or mind.

So, what am I doing here on this Substack? I am collecting and cataloguing my nostalgia for my homeland, hoping to preserve it in memory, at least.

So come, sit with me. Let me tell you some stories.