Following Palmyra, The Tree That Keeps Giving

There’s a single palm tree (othai panai maram in Tamil) right next to my house in Chennai. Alone it stands as the only female palmyra (palm tree), brushing leaves with a majestic peepul. I’ve often wondered if the tree ever experienced solitude — to grow and bloom and fruit all by itself, removed from its kin. It is now early September and the fully grown palmyra is bursting with deep purple, almost black fruits, a sign that the unripe nungus (ice apples) from April and May were neglected.

The palmyra palm, its trunk tall and smooth, leading up to a firework of crowning branches, is Tamil Nadu’s official state tree. Here, the tree is referred to as the kalpa tharu or the tree of life — the tree that keeps on giving. From sap to fruits to shoots, from fronds to leaves to trunk, the palmyra has many uses. The trunks, fronds and fibre are used in construction of houses, and the shoot, fruit, greens and sap are used in daily cooking and for special occasions, adding diverse flavours to a plate.

Researcher, tourism advisor and founder of Aetram Commune (opens in new tab) Dr Preethi Hari Babu, whose doctoral research was on the cultural, ecological and economic significance of palmyra, organises heritage tourism trails across Tamil Nadu focused completely on the plant. ‘We have three trails — one in Thoothukudi, one in Kanyakumari and another in Villupuram. In all three trails we make the tourists experience local cuisines and handicrafts that incorporate the palmyra tree’s produce.’

In Tamil Nadu, this drought-resistant tree is concentrated around the southern coastal districts of Tirunelveli, Thoothukudi, Ramanathapuram and Kanyakumari, and is intrinsically tied to people’s livelihoods. ‘Closer to Vembar [a village in Thoothukudi district], people [work as] palmyra climbers for 6 months and fishermen for 6 months, [using] palmyra in tools like fish traps. The Muslim community of Kayalpatnam [a town in the Thoothukudi district], uses palmyra produce quite distinctively [in foods],’ says Preethi, referring to the paavu and the puttu. While paavu (opens in new tab) is a fudge-like dish made from palmyra jaggery syrup, cashews, and choice of fruits or vegetables, the puttu is a version of palmyra kalkandu, a traditional Tamil sugar candy.

When I talk to Sudhakar Ramasubramoney Iyer, I can hear the palmyra fruits falling with a thud. In 2018, Sudhakar, a former resident of the commercial hub Mumbai, took a leap of faith from his corporate routine and moved into a 12-acre farm in Tirunelveli. From here, Sudhakar and his wife Noushadya run VaanaVizha (opens in new tab), an organisation committed to growing and promoting organic farm produce. Their tryst with the palmyra was a case of happenstance. ‘[Before we arrived], the farm already had over 100 palmyra trees, about 40 coconut trees and 30 to 40 neem trees. Coconuts are easier to sell but palm was new to us. Around the time we moved, in July and August, the palm started dropping its fruits,’ he shares.

While telling me about the fruit, Sudhakar abruptly stops to call out to someone in the background about something called a pannatu. ‘I just remembered to add pannattu to our list [of products],’ he explains. Pannattu is a sort of dried jelly made using the palmyra fruit pulp, not unlike the aam papad, a type of fruit leather that’s made using mangoes. ‘It’s actually a Sri Lankan snack and the locals here don’t have a name for it. We sell it on our online store as pannattu or palmyra leather. It's very seasonal,’ says Sudhakar. The completely ripe fruit — which only the female plant can bear, while the male trees stop at flowering — are luscious and flaming orange on the inside, its fibres thick with pulp (opens in new tab). The palmyra fruit has a bitter undertone to its flavour profile. ‘It’s a very acquired taste,’ he shares.

Sudhakar explains that over the years, he’s been able to understand the palmyra economy better. ‘Taking yield from the palmyra is definitely labour-intensive and when compared to coconut or sugarcane, palmyra farming does not have [government] subsidies [that make its production cheaper]. On the other hand, it does not need fertiliser [or other inputs]. This makes palmyra comparatively underutilised.’

During the fruiting season, a portion of the fallen ripe palmyra fruit is collected as quickly as possible and buried in a raised bed of soil. These heavily fibrous fruits are like a siren call to bugs and other insects that swarm the fruits within a few hours. ‘You sow the fruits and wait for the north-east monsoon rains in October and November. It’s an easy crop to cultivate because it does not need much attention,’ says Sudhakar.

The first part of the plant that is harvested is the palm tuber, which becomes ready around Pongal, a harvest festival in Tamil Nadu celebrated mid-January, and is a part of the festival’s ceremonial platter. More commonly, the tubers are boiled with a bit of salt and a pinch of turmeric, and sold on pushcarts as snacks across the state. Recently, I also learnt from a palmyra tree climber in Chennai that they sun-dry these boiled tubers and munch on them as snacks.

It is the distinctive nature of the plant — its omnipresence and cultural relevance — that gives it a versatile life. Fittingly enough, this gift-giving tree features prominently in Tamil Sangam, the earliest documentation of Tamil literature produced in sangams or literary academies.

Popular among them are lines from Puranaanooru (opens in new tab) (poem 225) written by poet Alathur Kizhar in praise of the Chola king Nalankilli’s (c. 445 to c. 380 BCE) army:

Source: Vaidehi Herbert’s blog (opens in new tab)

The poem paints a picture of King Nalankilli’s army: it was so enormous that its march through the lands lasted several months. And so, the men in the parade enjoyed the palmyra’s seasonal offerings — from the jelly-like unripe nungu abundant from March to June, to the juicy and fibrous panam pazham fruits that rain down from July through October and the thin, slightly bitter tubers (panam kizhangu) that are ready for harvest by January.

Beyond its fruits and tubers, palmyra is beloved for its sap, collected by generations of tappers and climbers, some of whom belong to the Nadar communities from the southern districts. This tree of historic importance can remain severely underutilised without these native climbers. While palm tree climbers are not from typically land-owning communities, often having to lease palm trees or harvest sap for landowners, it is these communities that have the traditional knowledge of how to tap the refreshing padhaneer or sap from the tree’s flower clusters. The padhaneer is commonly consumed as a refreshing and cooling beverage, but any local will tell you it is the fermented padhaneer, also known as kallu or toddy, that tops the list of palmyra favourites.

While kallu enjoys table-thumping enthusiasm in neighbouring states of Kerala and Andhra Pradesh, in Tamil Nadu the drink has been banned since the 1930s. The ban triggered an outraged response from tappers, eventually resulting in the Tamil Nadu Palm Climbers Protection Movement, initiated in 2021 and spearheaded by D Pandian (47), a climber from Narasingalur village in Villipuram district. Albeit recent, it is a pivotal movement in palmyra’s social, cultural and ecological history.

Despite acknowledging that kallu has a low percentage of alcohol, the Tamil Nadu Prohibition Act 1937 (opens in new tab) and Neera Rules 2017 (opens in new tab) continue to ban the drink citing practical difficulties in monitoring adulteration (opens in new tab). Additionally, tappers who climb the palmyra tree to collect the sap require licenses from local revenue authorities. This licensing method has led to harassment, extortion and exploitation of tappers, says Pandian. ‘We don't know why kallu is classified along with alcohol. All fermented foods have certain levels of alcohol in them, but [it is because] the law does not specify [acceptible] alcohol levels, [we face blanket restriction],’ Pandian laments. ‘Kallu is a part of India’s traditional foods. Only a people's revolution can bring about a change. This cannot be a single man’s petition.’

Time and again I hear from climbers about the physical rigour of the work and glaring imbalance in remuneration. In traditional palmyra tree-climbing families, poor livelihoods have led many to abandon the occupation entirely, and younger generations have grown up without receiving traditional knowledge.

While kallu is sometimes consumed even three times a day by the tappers, they generally steer clear of the sickly-sweet padhaneer. Why? ‘The sugar from the padhaneer doesn't give us the stamina for climbing. It actually causes fatigue,’ says Pandian. ‘Fermenting does wonders for the kallu and is more refreshing,’ he adds.

The sap, which can be collected from both male and female palmyra trees, is sweet and colourless. Left on its own and exposed to the microbes in the air, it quickly ferments into the fizzy and refreshing kallu. To prevent the sap from fermenting, tappers line their pots with slaked lime to ensure the liquid stays sweet as padhaneer. The collected padhaneer is boiled and reduced in huge vats, then poured into coconut-shell moulds. When it cools it solidifies to form the rich and dark brown karupatti or palmyra jaggery.

Akila Kunalan, an IT professional whose passion lies in unlocking the untapped gastronomic potential of the palmyra palm, uses karupatti to make sweet delicacies. Produced in the summer and consumed throughout the year, palm jaggery is the key ingredient in popular dishes such as sweet paniyaram, soft and fluffy fermented rice-based balls. When paired with fermented grain and ginger, the jaggery offers slow-releasing energy to agricultural labour in the humid tropical climate of Tamil Nadu. ‘We consider palm jaggery to be a coolant,’ Akila shares. ‘Most of the celebrations during the summer will have paniyaram, especially for the toddy tapper [communities].’

For the last few years, Akila has been a part of the Panai Kanavu Thiruvizha festival held by toddy-tapping communities near Villupuram district. During the two-day festival palm tappers from various parts of southern Tamil Nadu gather to discuss the importance of the palmyra and dispel the stigma around its tapping. For the second edition of the festival, Akila organised a display of 124 dishes which used every edible part of the palmyra: tubers; fermented sap; padhaneer; nungu; palmyra shoots; and the much-beloved karupatti;. ‘Even people from villages and suburbs have lost all [the culture around the palmyra],’ Akila shares. ‘It is because they don’t have access to the palmyra products, and because most of it is now commercialised.’

Salem-based Muthukumaran (27) and Bharath (31), newbie palmyra climbers, see potential in the far-reaching value of karupatti. Mentored by Pandian, Muthukumaran and Bharath first took to palm tree climbing as a sporting activity. ‘We started climbing for fun,’ begins Bharath. ‘It was a rush to learn how to climb, and the views are fantastic,’ adds Muthukumaran. Since they began climbing, their outlook has evolved. ‘We now want to make and sell karupatti. My urge to learn came from trying to understand how to utilise this tree that grows wildly. When I first climbed I didn't think I would make a business out of it,’ Bharath chuckles.

Until 30 years ago, Bharath's family farms were filled with palm trees. ‘Someone told me that in the 1970s they sold 10 kilograms of karupatti at INR 2. Making the karupatti is also an extra process.’ Due to low economic return, Bharath’s family saw little use in palm trees and chopped down hundreds on their farms. ‘When a profitable economy is built around it, things will get better. Not to forget, this is also risky business,’ he explains. But clearly, with more youngsters showing interest, change is on the horizon.

For all its worth, the palm offers more than what meets the eye. From least-striking flowers comes a hydrating drink; hard shells open to reveal the delicious jellies, and even the most rigid leaves have been used to carry valuable writing — ancient Tamil Sangam literature. This tree is always present, perhaps most often a feature in the landscape, but definitely a miracle for the eye that seeks.