Mango Season

1
Ever since the neighbourhood tree
began to recklessly flower and
hang out its fruit like some monochrome linen,
my mother had taken to sleep by the window-
thieving footfalls and stone-throwing urchins
kept her awake through night and nap-time.

Grand children deployed at mealtimes
screeched and chased
squirrels and garden lizards
flinging mud balls and waving sticks.

2
“They ought to have grown to over
a kilo in size each”,
said my mother,
training her hawk eyes on
a heap of tender mangoes
gathered by the grand children
from the street-side drains.

“This must be a pickle-mango tree!”,
said my pickle loving sister.
So one heap was sliced wafer-thin and pickled.

“This pickle is sweetish!”, grimaced
my father.
In his long checker-board life,
he had never had his flavours mixed.

3
“This tree has an infection”,
said the tree-doctor from the Agri-University.

“All trees shed their early mangoes.
You must wait for the second crop”,
said my know-all brother-in-law.

Only, my wife knew best.
She firmly walked to the nearby market
and bought a dozen of the juicy fruit.
She peeled and sliced them into succulent cubes.
At the evening meal, every one quietly ate.

That night, my mother slept like a baby.