The juvenile thrill of scrumping

RS Dalal

Updated At : 04:52 AM Feb 26, 2026 IST

MY love for the humble ber (Indian jujube) is rooted in the soil of my childhood. In the early 1960s, as a Class-VI student at Arya School in Ludhiana, I walked over 2 km to school with a band of friends from Ram Bharose ka Mohalla, where we lived. Our route passed a vast ber orchard — scruffy and unnoticed for most of the year, but pure temptation in winter.

When the trees hung heavy with yellow fruit, resistance was impossible. One boy would guard our satchels while the rest slipped through the hedge. The sharp thorns made climbing impractical, so we used pebbles to knock the ber down. One morning, however, our luck ran out. As we threw our first stones, the mali (gardener) charged from behind a tree, brandishing a lathi.

We ran for our lives, lungs bursting, not daring to look back. After a narrow escape, we gathered in a hurried huddle, swearing a pact of silence — no less earnest than the Omertà code — before slipping into our classrooms.

More than six decades later, that memory resurfaced with startling clarity. In March last year, I travelled to Dadri with a friend to attend a prayer meeting in remembrance of a former minister. I had known him since 1977, when I was posted as SSP, Bhiwani, and he worked in the telephone department in an era when even urgent calls took hours. Jovial, helpful and widely respected, he later entered politics and was elected MLA several times.

After paying our respects amid a large gathering of supporters, we began the drive back to Gurugram. On a whim, I suggested a detour via Khedi Khativas to my native village. He readily agreed.

As we drove along, a ber orchard appeared by the roadside. We stopped at once. It was a breathtaking sight. Every tree, every branch was laden with fruit, the afternoon sun making the jujube glisten like gems. We stood silently, absorbing the spectacle. A passerby told us that this was among the few such orchards left in the region, as waterlogging and paddy cultivation were steadily displacing these hardy trees.

Noticing a long bamboo pole with an iron hook leaning against a tree, I felt a sudden surge of boyish impulse. I walked briskly toward the orchard, tempted to shake a branch, when a vendor shouted, “Careful! The contractor has a fierce dog!”

I stopped short and retreated, laughing at my own recklessness.

In that instant, 60 years dissolved. The sight of the fruit was not merely scenic; it was a bridge to my past. The thrill, the fear, the mischief and the memory of fleeing the mali came rushing back with vivid intensity.

Khedi Khativas had given me more than a detour. It had offered a fleeting, joyful return to the boy I once was.

The writer is a former DGP of Haryana

The juvenile thrill of scrumping

RS Dalal

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