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This summer, like all summers, the mango tree across my parents home’s balcony beckoned me to come home. I went. Very few experiences match the delight of homecoming…
In the martaban* of my mother’s kitchen,
Pickled and soured for ages…
Hanging peacefully amidst the noise of aroused crickets-
In the endless hours of early morning…
In the hues of many shades- red, green and yellow,
But each one tasting different from other…
Aimed by the mango- pluckers,
Lying on the astonishing gold blanket of leaves on the ground…
Covered with dirt carrying sweat and dust-
Bearing the vagaries of tumultuous storm,,,
My tree, the home of ant and squirrels,
Waking up daily to the sound of koel…
My tree, aging by oblivion
Sight of which, the constant companion to my father’s cup of tea…
Every year I wait eagerly-
For my childhood friend homecoming…
For her to revel in the most awaited feast of the summers,
The delightful fragrance of my sap filling the air…
Here, I am the mango-
Of the humble mango tree!
*a large glazed pottery jar originally made in lower Burma and used especially for domestic storage (as of water or food)
Image source: Pexels
Lover of books, movies, thandi chai and dry cakes (necessarily in that order). Teacher, mother,
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