Ode to a Chiku

India has many lovely and surprising fruits. Most of those that are grown in mountainous Himachal Pradesh — in Kinnaur and Kullu and a few more local — are delicious but short in season. There’s a real ‘now you see ‘em, now you don’t’ feel. A  lot of these fruits are not readily found in the West.  Not because they’re not growable there, but perhaps not amenable to the requirements of grocery store lifestyle.

One of these is the chiku, a wintertime yield from southern India (and also Latin America, and parts of southeast Asia). Chikus are not a beautiful fruit, not showy or appealing to the eye like an apple or a mango. They look more like potatoes, and the insides are a soft brown mush. And they are finicky. Eaten one day too early, they’re cheek-puckering sour and the fibers catch in the throat. When they’re ripe, they turn soft and are easily crushed under the weight of just a single other chiku. They have to be monitored daily until they are ripe, at which time they have to be eaten immediately.

The flavor is not vibrant like other tropical fruits, say, banana and papaya. It’s not floral like a fig. It’s more an earthy, brown sugar flavor. There is no ‘proper’ way to eat one. The skins are thin and the insides lack structural integrity, so they can’t really be peeled and served. Nor can the skins be eaten. They have a few almond-shaped large seeds inside, that must be avoided.

Yet this is one of my favorite fruits. It demands to be taken on its own terms. And when it is respected in this way, it rewards handsomely. I baby them until they are ready to eat, then place two thumbs at the top and press into the fruit, splitting it in half. The insides do separate into a manner of sections, so pieces can be broken off, seeds removed, and eaten. Preferably outside, in the shade.

Last December chikus were available by the cart-load in Delhi and a few kilos made it with us up to Dharamsala (though not entirely unscathed). When I arrived back here in March, they were to be found in the market, but only rarely and quite small and hard. Every once in awhile we would procure some, and often cut into them too soon, which is highly unpleasant (see above). Hence the thumb-opening technique. If they’re ripe, they open easily. If any force is required, they’re not ready, and then the eater is advised to stay away.

Last weekend I was in Mumbai for a bit of work. One of the fringe benefits of having to go to Mumbai was the opportunity to partake of much more plentiful fruit. Chikus the size of baseballs were available. A few hardy ones were found, brought back to the hotel, and then carefully hand-carried all the way back to Dharamsala. The last ones were eaten yesterday. Yum!