A dozen of them arrived hidden inside a suitcase. Smuggled across borders in the name of love. True love. Covered in yellow and green skins holding the sunshine of the tropics and the sweetness of the people within. Carrying the essence of lazy summer afternoons spent back home waiting for the power supply to come back, fanning ourselves with hand-woven rectangular fans, for many hours.
They sit invitingly in a clear glass bowl. My most cherished possessions! Sadly perishable! Can hardly stop myself from digging into them and yet want them to last for as long as possible. Can hardly bear the thought that one day they will all be gone. Finished. The aroma they ooze tingles the senses and unknowingly I hang around the fruit bowl just to be within the sphere of that aroma.
Each bite, a taste of heaven. Beyond all description. The juicy firmness, disappearing into sublime lusciousness leaving me in state of ecstatic bliss. I take small mouthfuls to make it last longer. The juice drips in thick yellow drops from my knuckles as I devour the pulp around the stone. The whole world disappears when I am one with the mango. Move over Sally. (Ref: ‘When Harry met Sally’).
Summer is synonymous with mangos. Saagar used to love them ever since he first tasted them when he was 8 months old. He called them ‘ambu’, baby lingo for ‘aam’ which means mango in Hindi. I call Si ‘Tarzan’ when it’s hot and he roams around t-shirtless. He calls me ‘Mango’.