Just in case you think there’s been a typo in the headline, let me inform you that I am not referring to the four-letter word for a citrus fruit from Jamaica. That’s spelt ugli, a recurring crossword clue that many readers of this supplement would be familiar with. Ugly is what a French supermarket brand calls misshapen fruits and vegetables which, in a masterstroke that has won it both profits and plaudits, it has been selling at a discount. Had it not been for its clever sales pitch, Himalayan masses of perfectly edible but so-called ‘inglorious’ produce would have ended up in the rubbish dump. That’s seven million tonnes a year, we’re told, of good green groceries being wilfully destroyed in France. Because good isn’t good enough for most western consumers. It has to be good-looking as well.
Arrey, if those French people tried any such gimmick in India they would fall flat on their faces. Because no fruit or veg, however ugly, is neglected in our country. Haven’t you seen those tiny piles of aging fruit and veg arranged on a spread-out sack? On the pavement outside the bar, bakery or electrical repair shop, you can see the shrivelled carrots, pygmy brinjals and gnarled potatoes sold for a few coins in lots of 100 gm or so. Next to the wayside temple there are black-skinned bananas and custard apples that you or I would shrink from. But poor people buy them; there is no dearth of poverty in our two-trillion-dollar economy; and please note that the one who peddles these withered vegetables is only a shade less impoverished than the one who buys it. Every time I come across them I am thankful that at least some deprived families are going to fortify their chilli-water saaru with a pinch of vitamins. Masanobu Fukuoka, pioneer of natural farming, has a beautiful way of describing wrinkled and wilted (though not rotten) produce. He says they’re like a person in meditation! Apparently they are in a state that preserves their nutritional value for the longest time, and it is a mistake to sprinkle water on them to make them appear new. Well, who am I to question the master?
Middle class shoppers have the luxury of picking tarkari that’s plump and shiny. But although they demand freshness they easily forgive lumps, knots and clefts. I snorted when I saw pictures of the inglorious eggplants, carrots and lemons of France. They look no different from what we see on pushcarts every day. But in the global market, appearances have dictated the fate of fruits and vegetables for close to half a century now. Commercial agriculture, large-scale farming and a Fascist culling of the imperfect have resulted in a devastating waste of natural resources. In the guise of imposing stringent norms, fruits and vegetables are graded by size, shape and colour. They are rejected if they display any of a specified list of flaws: scars, scabs, cuts, bruises, deformities, discolorations, sunburn... it’s an endless litany. A certain percentage of deviation from the ‘ideal’ is permitted. And attractiveness is the only criterion. Taste is nowhere in the picture.
Since it doesn’t take long these days for western practices to be adopted in India, I’m a bit fearful of what lies in store for us. Already one spots uniformly-sized cellophane-wrapped veggies in urban supermarkets. I just hope that some retail company doesn’t oblige growers to discard ugly produce instead of allowing it to trickle down to the needy. On the lighter side, Monsieur and Madame, let me tell you what many Indians do when they come across funny-looking farm produce. They rush to the local newspaper office with it. Look here, they say, don’t you think this potato is the spitting image of Lord Ganesha, why don’t you publish a photo of it? In the paper where I once worked, practically every other day I would look up from my desk to find an eager visitor cradling a deformed yam or grotesque papaya. The situation got so bad that we were forced to impose a blanket ban on freaky vegetables.
Organic produce is always unevenly shaped and average-sized. The middle class has caught on to the concept and your street-smart neighbourhood vendors are familiar with it too, although they don’t actually use the word ‘organic’ and prefer ‘naati’. A vendor in my local market used to regularly tempt me with the cry, “It’s naati, ma”, indicating that his gherkins were not hybrid, were grown domestically without the use of chemicals, and were above all tasty. Hidayath who runs the shop around the corner urged me to try his naturally ripened mangoes. “No powder,” he said, referring to calcium carbide which most fruit-sellers use liberally. “I ripened them at home, placed them in grass plucked from my garden.” And indeed his Dussehri mangoes were sweet, with wisps of dry grass clinging to them as evidence.
Before scientists began promoting ‘improved’ hybrids we used to eat fruits and vegetables that sprouted on their own in our backyards, the seeds having germinated from the peels and rotting pulp we flung into the compound. Today we would call them organic. Papayas, tomatoes and pumpkins were watered with run-off from clothes washed by the well. And nobody gave a hoot what they looked like. Taste was everything.
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