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*a large glazed pottery jar originally made in lower Burma and used especially for domestic storage (as of water or food)
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