PLUCKED FROM TRUTH

The Forgotten Science, Sacredness, and Sensuality of Eating Fruits Ripened on the Tree Itself

There was a time when humans did not need to ask:

"Is this fruit organic?"

"Is it pesticide-free?"

"Is it naturally ripened?"

Because back then, there was only one kind of fruit:

The kind that waited for the sun, the bird, the breeze, and the season to decide when it was ready.

The kind that didn’t need a certificate to be true.

It grew where it wanted.

It ripened as it was meant to.

And it was eaten when the nose said yes, when the hand felt its weight, when the branch let it go.

Not because of barcode, but because of instinct.

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I. THE SCIENCE OF FRUIT RIPENING

Let’s begin with the simple biology of what happens when a fruit ripens on the tree:

1. Full-spectrum nutrient formation:

The tree continues to feed the fruit through its stalk until the very last moment. Sugars, minerals, enzymes, antioxidants — all complete their transformation only in those final sun-kissed days.

2. Phytonutrient crescendo:

Compounds like flavonoids, lycopene, anthocyanins, and polyphenols peak during natural ripening.

Artificial ripening methods using ethylene gas or calcium carbide block or distort these pathways.

3. Digestive readiness:

A fruit plucked at full maturity contains natural enzyme patterns aligned with human digestion.

Unripe or artificially ripened fruits often cause gas, bloating, or constipation because they confuse the gut.

4. Fragrance as bioindicator:

Real ripening sends aromatic signals — not just for us, but for bees, butterflies, and squirrels.

These fragrances are signs of biochemical completion, not cosmetic ripening.

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II. WHY HUMANS STOPPED WAITING FOR RIPENESS

Modern humans no longer wait.

They demand.

Fruit must look perfect, travel far, last long.

It must be plucked early, transported firm, sprayed glossy, ripened overnight in sealed rooms, and sold symmetrical.

In this rush:

The tree is silenced.

The sun’s timing is ignored.

The fruit is taken, not received.

We replaced the waiting with a warehouse.

We replaced fragrance with shelf life.

We replaced nourishment with packaging.

And in doing so, we lost our rhythm.

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III. PLUCKING: A SENSORIAL, SACRED ACT

To pluck a fruit at the right moment is not a market task.

It is a ritual — as intimate as bathing a newborn.

Your fingers must feel the resistance soften.

Your eyes must see the shade deepen.

Your nose must detect the calling fragrance.

Your body must sense:

Now… now it wants to leave.

And when it drops into your palm — heavy, warm, alive —

It is not just food.

It is a conversation.

The tree says, "Take. I am done."

And you say, "Thank you. I waited."

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IV. MEMORY OF FRUIT IN THE BODY

Fruits ripened on trees remember the sun.

They remember rain.

They remember the wind, the night bird, the soil's pH, the moon’s pull.

When you eat that fruit, your cells inherit the memory.

You don’t just absorb Vitamin C.

You absorb context.

The ecosystem enters you.

This is why old village women often say:

"The mango is cool this year."

"The guava is sour. Rain was late."

They are not speaking poetry.

They are translating the memory of trees.

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V. FRUIT AS A METAPHOR FOR THE HUMAN LIFE

A human who is forced to ripen before their time —

Who is judged before full maturity —

Who is polished for presentation —

Will suffer, just like the fruit.

Premature education.

Premature career.

Premature marriage.

Premature fame.

These are green fruits in cold storage.

Only those who are allowed to ripen —

With time. With sun. With silence. With their roots deep —

Only they can be sweet without bitterness.

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VI. THE CULTURAL FALL FROM THE TREE

Our ancestors waited under the tree.

They offered salt and chili to the tamarind.

They sang for the jackfruit to open.

They fed cows before eating bananas.

They never plucked everything — some fruits were left for birds and spirits.

Now we don’t even ask:

"Can I take this?"

We strip the tree bare in one go.

Sell the harvest.

Lock it in boxes.

Call it “inventory.”

Call it “progress.”

Call it “fruit business.”

But the truth is:

We’ve forgotten how to eat.

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VII. THE RETURN TO WAITING

To pluck and eat a fruit that ripened on the tree is to:

Reconnect with the slow intelligence of nature

Trust the language of your senses

Heal the gut, the skin, the mood, and the heart

Break free from industrial food chains

Offer reverence instead of entitlement

It is a radical act.

A medicinal act.

A spiritual act.

It is not just a fruit.

It is a teacher.

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"WAITING FOR THE FRUIT TO RIPEN ON THE TREE

IS THE SAME AS WAITING FOR YOUR OWN TRUTH TO MATURE."

Let your tongue remember this.

Let your children taste this.

Let your trees know you’re willing to wait again.

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HEALING DIALOGUE: THE RIPENING

Setting:

Late afternoon beneath the fruit trees behind the hermit family's off-grid home.

A village family visits — Ravi (42), his wife Sheela (38), and their son Arnav (13).

They have brought supermarket apples, bananas in plastic wrap, and two bottles of soft drink.

The hermit family — the father, mother, and two daughters — are slicing papaya straight off the tree, fingers stained with its bright juice.

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RAVI (watching the juice run down the girl's arm):

Doesn’t it upset your stomach — eating it right off the tree?

HERMIT FATHER (smiling):

The only thing that upsets our stomachs… is food that was never alive to begin with.

SHEELA:

But it looks so soft… don’t you prefer firmer fruits?

HERMIT MOTHER:

Firmer for whom? For the shelf? For the truck ride? For your teeth that forgot how to chew?

ARNAV:

This papaya smells weird.

(He sniffs the plastic banana instead.)

This smells like banana.

ELDER DAUGHTER (laughing):

That’s the smell of your wrapper, not the banana.

HERMIT FATHER:

Real fruit speaks in scent. If it doesn’t smell alive, it isn’t.

If it doesn’t call out to your skin, your saliva, your stomach — then it’s not fruit.

It’s decoration.

SHEELA:

But we don’t have trees. We live in an apartment.

HERMIT MOTHER:

Then plant one. Just one. And wait.

Let your son know what it means to eat something that grew under his window.

To smell it ripen. To touch it warm. To earn it by presence, not price.

RAVI (sighing):

I remember when I was a boy. We had a guava tree behind the house.

I would climb it. Eat five in a row.

No salt. No plate. Just teeth and tree.

HERMIT FATHER:

That boy still lives inside you. He’s just buried under billing cycles.

ARNAV:

Can I try that papaya?

YOUNGER DAUGHTER (offering):

Only if you pluck it yourself.

(He walks hesitantly, touches a ripe one hanging low, looks around for approval.)

HERMIT FATHER:

Don’t ask the tree. Just feel.

If it lets go, it means it wants to leave. That’s ripeness.

(Arnav gently pulls. The fruit comes off into his hand. He grins. Everyone watches.)

ARNAV:

It’s… warm.

HERMIT MOTHER:

Yes. Because it’s not dead yet.

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BUKOWSKI-STYLE POEM: PAPAYA SUN

you spend your life

eating things that never wanted to be eaten.

mangoes harvested green.

bananas ripened in a box.

papayas frozen for shipping.

fruits that flinch

in your mouth.

you forgot how to wait.

you forgot how to smell.

you forgot that

fruit is a message

from a tree,

not a barcode

from a store.

the last time

you ate something alive

was when your grandmother

plucked a jamun

from a thorny branch

and stuffed it into your mouth

before you could ask

“is it washed?”

that purple stained your tongue

and your childhood.

you never recovered.

now you sit

behind laminated desks

with peeled apples in boxes,

and think you’ve evolved.

but real fruit

wants to fall.

not be ripped.

not be chilled.

not be disinfected.

it wants you

to catch it

as it lets go.

you cannot cheat ripeness.

you cannot import warmth.

you cannot pasteurize joy.

one day,

your child

will pluck a papaya

from a tree

you planted,

and she will eat it

without spoon,

without thought,

without permission.

and for a moment,

this world

will taste

like home again.

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