Plants my Thakuma Told me About
- Priya M
- Apr 21
- 6 min read
Editor's note:
While researching this piece, I asked myself: what is nostalgia, truly? To some, it is a soft breeze on a sweltering summer day, a fleeting touch of comfort. To others, it is a force that consumes them. Priya Mandal shares with us stories from her grandmother’s vault, and in these stories I realised that — time, even though it moves forward, never truly leaves us. As Markus Zusak once said, we are haunted by humans - those who came before us; they remain etched in our smiles, our scars, our sorrows. Some days, we even cradle them gently like holding butterflies on our palms.
Priya’s Thakuma, her grandmother arrived with her family on the islands from Bangladesh in 1961, seeking a home on Havelock’s shores. Along with her husband, she learned the language of the soil. Through Priya’s stories, and perhaps in the echoes of her laughter, I was given the gift of meeting her grandmother and learning about her traditional knowledge of the forest. For that I thank her and her family immensely. Especially, I thank Priya’s parents: P.C. Mandal Sir and Anita Mandal Ma’am for being so inspirational and allowing us to share this story. - Sarah A
The sun shimmers through the canopy, spilling pools of light onto the forest floor as Sarah and I step softly onto familiar grounds. There’s an instant switch - I can feel it - like I’m walking into a memory. This is the first of many walks we will do together to create a contour map of my childhood. Here in this space, I feel both curiosity and reverence, tethered to Banadēbī (বনদেবী) - the guardian spirit of the forest. As a child, whenever we ventured into the forest for a picnic, my Thakuma (ঠাকুমা/grandmother) would guide me to offer the first morsel to the spirits of the forest, before we could partake in the meal.
Thakuma had many stories of Andaman that she told us - her voice soft but steady. Havelock, our home, was and always will be more than a patch of land to us; it is a library of nature’s secrets, and these days, each plant is a book that I am trying to read from. The first plant that I recognize is Bhutti Patta (Siam Weed or Chromolaena odorata). As children, whenever we were hurt, we would press these triangular, serrated leaves gently over our wounds, even the sting of a burn was soothed by the tender touch of this plant. Though it is invasive (introduced from America) on these islands, its antiseptic and antimicrobial properties are many, as Thakuma taught us. I crush a leaf and make Sarah hold it to her nose - it is pungent and earthy - like musty hay.
In a paper published in Pharmacognosy Review, “Wound Healing Property Review of Siam Weed, Chromolaena odorata” (Anushika Sirinthipaporn et al. 2017) describe this plant as a “traditional medicinal plant that is widely used for its wound healing property.”
The second plant that I remember vividly is one that grows all over Havelock, especially along the roads - it is a magnet for many species of butterflies as it is a great source of nectar, commonly known as Porterweed (Stachytarpheta sp.), we call it Hathi Sund (perhaps because it resembles the trunk of an elephant). Again, an invasive shrub (introduced from tropical America) on the islands, it is known to provide relief from arthritis and inflammation of joints.
Tubular mauve flowers of Stachytarpheta sp. Photo: Sarah A.
In their paper titled “Stachytarpheta jamaicensis (L.) Vahl: From Traditional Usage to Pharmacological Evidence” (Liew & Yong, 2016) describe this plant as “an important plant with medicinal properties in traditional and folk systems.”
A third plant that grows around my home, with delicate purple flowers, takes me back to memories of my Thakuma. These plants, Jicama or Pachyrhizus erosus or Mexican turnip, are called Shankalu in Bangla (introduced from Mexico and America), a name that reminds me of the conch, because of the pearly white edible root inside. I first encountered Shankalu as a child, when Thakuma took me to a hill and gave me a task—“Look for the creepers with purple flowers,” she said. The hunt was thrilling, and I eagerly spotted one after another, while Thakuma with her small wrecking bar, dug them up from the earth. She tied the loose end of her saree into a knot to carry our finds, and we filled her kochod (small pocket) with the treasures before heading back home. At her side, I learned to peel the alu, its crunchy, juicy bite becoming a favorite snack of mine. It was a perfect remedy for thirst, and whenever we played, we’d dig one up, savoring the refreshing crunch; as the taste of those moments with Thakuma lingered in my heart.
There is a humble plant with delicate purple blooms that I learned about from Thakuma. It is the Little Iron Weed, Cyanthillium cinereum, known as Kukshim in Bangla. Whenever I fell ill, she would gently pull up one of these plants, brushing it from my head to my toes three times. “To ward off the evil eye,” she would whisper. I often watched as she used the roots for healing as well. The essence of Cyanthillium cinereum is said to possess powerful anti-microbial qualities. In the wisdom of traditional medicine, it is also used to ease a lot of other ailments —an enduring testament to nature’s quiet cures.
In their paper tiled “Therapeutic Uses and Prospects of Cynathillium cinereum - the Underrated Herb” published in Biomedical and Pharmacology Journal (Roy J.R, Julius A et al. 2022), describe this plant as one that has “many compounds that are known to possess pharmacological activities.”
In the summer of 2002, a visitor arrived at Thakuma’s home. He looked unwell. Without a pause, she hurried out to the vast uthan — her earthen courtyard, where the edges were lined with plants of all shapes and sizes. I followed her, curious. She lingered among the plants, her gaze steady, before she swiftly plucked one from the earth. “Why does this Tetul leaf (Tamarind) have seeds beneath it, Thakuma?” I asked, puzzled. Thakuma smiled gently, correcting me, “It’s not Tetul (Tamarind). It’s Hazarmoni.” In the language of our people, Hazar means a thousand, and Moni means gems. The tiny seeds nestled beneath the leaves, once overlooked, now gleamed with significance—no less precious than gems themselves. This was the Stone Breaker plant, Phyllanthus amarus, known for its power to heal.
There are countless other plants my Thakuma knew about — Kuch phal, the vibrant rosary pea; Bokul phal, the fragrant bullet wood; Bet phal, drawn from wild cane; and Khatta phal, the tart bilimbi fruit. She spoke of Titemoni and Koromcha with its sour bite, and Dumur, the soft, earthy fig. There were leaves too—Khatta Pata, the wild passion fruit, Bashok Pata, known for the healing malabar nut, and Dudh Panta, with its milky sap and hidden power. So many others drift in and out of memory, some preserved in my mind, others, perhaps, still living within me—absorbed into my body like old medicine. Here are glimpses of the plants and trees I dream about in my quiet hours.
Pink berries of Glycosmis sp. Photo: Sarah A.
The fruit of wild cane or rattan Calamus poilanei. Photo by: Sathish Raj
Disclaimer: The knowledge shared here is rooted in tradition, passed down through generations who have lived in deep connection with the land and forest. If you choose to forage in the wild, always do so under the guidance of an expert. Never consume any wild plant without proper identification and confirmation from someone knowledgeable. Many plants hold healing, but some carry harm — toxicity and allergic reactions are real risks.
About the author:
Priya is a local girl from Havelock who is both an engineer and an educator. She has been teaching island kids for the past 3 years. She has helped and supported more than 300 children with school and empowered them to realize their dreams and ambitions.
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