Thankful
and reflective in a world
where
much is mixed up.
that
buying mangoes is still a thing
and
memories are many
of
fragrances
of
sun warmed charpaaies
and
the resin, dripping from stems
The
Market where BRK used to buy the boxes
rough
hewn and filled with sweet smelling hay
and
remind me always
that
hard working farmers grew them
and
that the largest and that
the
best ones were always always
sent
abroad, a word I did not then understand
Export
Quality he used to say and
explain
that the mangoes went on a plane
to
places far away
And
now I buy them
unloaded
off planes
and
get a call from the store from a brother
from
the Emerald Isle in the Indian Ocean
The
Alphonso are here, are you coming
I pay
him and get a box and a half
not
knowing when the next batch will arrive by plane
Now I
am at the receiving end of the export.
I
alert friends who understand hapus
The
children are happy, are these the REAL THING? They quip. knowing that I am a Mumbai
girl
And I
marvel that I,
societally
single
Am
able to continue the traditions of my father
where
buying mangoes is an annual ritual
I
place a fruit at the alter and light a diya of thanks
for
farmers who grow mangoes
the
rains that watered them
and
the insects that made possible, the flowers and fruit
and
for memories
that
wing me back to the places
where
charpaaies sit under mango trees
waiting
...
that
someday I shall return
the
same way the mangoes came to me
