My name is Mango, Alphonso a.k.a hapuz Mango. I grew up here in the back yard, owned by an old couple, by the edge of their kitchen window. Other than sunlight, soil and water, I thrive on ‘small talk’ from the kitchen. It did not take me long to figure out that the couple had a daughter ‘Meera’ who was to visit from London in a month. By then some of us should be ready, to be packed in a box and sent off with her for her English friends.
So here I am today, a month later, bigger, fuller and yellower. Few more days to go before I am plucked, ripped off the golden skin, sliced and laid on a plate.
One fine evening as the cool summer breeze swung me back and forth by the window in the moonlight, the tranquility was suddenly interrupted with laughter and noise from the kitchen.
“Meera ..In the kitchen.”
That’s when I saw her come in. She was right at the middle of the lot, like a damsel in company of giggling friends. Her purple skin shining in the incandescent light bulb almost blinding me. Her firm body bouncing slightly, as the box was placed on the platform. What a beauty!
Who is she? Not the regular jamun or baingan?
“Ma…put these plums in the freeze.”
Plum, what a lovely name.
“Ms.Plumy..This is Mang …” just as I was about to exchange pleasantries, the kitchen window was slammed on me. If only I could share the room with her tonight.
Next morning I waited for the window to open; for a glimpse of her. But it did not. May be the family went out. Ms. Plumy was still there, her smell was. It was different than the night before, a little pungent now. I hung there hapless in the humid air, ripening a little more.
The following morning when the window opened, she was nowhere. The box was gone too. A little later, the old man walked in with an empty plate in his hand and a big hiccup, “Plum cake was nice Meera.” He shoved the plate right next to the window, smeared with purple remains. I swung a little closer and smelled her…one last time. All hopes of blending with her squeezed out.
Right then a gust of wind hit me hard. I swirled around, dropped on the ground drenched in the lashes of rain.
Next I know I was struggling for space in a bowl with my cousins in unfamiliar surroundings.
Where am I?
The door opened and in walked Meera with a plastic bag in her hand. She emptied it in another bowl next to mine. That familiar smell filled the air. Plums…..
One of the purple beauties overflowed from her bowl and fell right on me. Her skin ruptured a little and soothed my rain beaten patchy skin.
“You look exotic. Who are you?” She asked coyly.
“My name is Mango, Alphonso a.k.a hapuz Mango!”
Photo By: NordWood Themes
This is an entry for Five00-7, a writing event hosted by ArtoonsInn. Check out the event prompt and guidelines here: https://writers.artoonsinn.com/five00-7/