The Mango Miscreants

Six pairs of eyes scanned the canopy of leaves, carefully trying to identify the elusive mango hidden among them. The afternoon sun, shining brightly in the middle of the hot summer season, adding to the challenge! Using the palm of one hand to protect against the sun, squinting the other, in the shade of the tree, trying to locate its prized possession. Through many such attempts in the past, it almost seemed to have become an art in itself! The prize, was not an ordinary mango. It was not a lowly store bought ripe mango that was enjoying the cool confines of the refrigerator at home! This was the Totapuri!

There are apparently 1500 varieties of mangoes grown in India(thank you google!) and each has its unique color, texture, taste and scent. And so, the Totapuri too had its own special appeal….enough to make a bunch of kids drool over it!

The tree itself, almost adding to the aura of its fruit, was the only one of its kind, among the dozen or so mango trees, most of them in my grandmother’s yard. Most of the other trees had fruit that would mostly find their final destination as pickles into sealed jars. But not the totapuri. It was meant for a higher purpose……the salivating mouths of kids with a lot of free time on their hands!

Suddenly, a cry went up from one of my buddies…..there it was nestled among the leaves, the unmistakable shape of the mango!

The distance from the ground, and the limited stability of the branches especially the ones closer to the fruit made it impossible to climb and try to grab it. The mangoes themselves for this particular tree, were limited in number, so spotting one, large enough to consume was challenging. Luckily, the only consumers for these mangoes seemed to be us…besides those pesky urban dwelling monkeys of course!

So now it was just a question of which one of us could find the right aim, to bring it down. It was as if we had to earn the fruit itself! After several tries and what seemed like an increasingly futile attempt….crack!

The rewarding sight of the mango dropping to the ground had us scampering to find it among the grass. Now that we had the object of our quest we knew what we had to do.

It was an unspoken rule: Keeping the gang together required the mango to be shared equally. So the next step required some parental guidance! I would take it to my mother who mostly gave a nonverbal gesture that meant she knew what we needed. But there was also a hint of admonishment, in what we had been upto!

I would watch as my mother carefully washed the mango, then sliced it into neat longitudinal pieces, separating it from the nonedible core. The pieces would then be set on a plate, some salt and paprika on the side. I could see the faces of my friends brighten with greed, as I brought the plate out.

Sprinkling some salt and paprika on the light yellow seemed to contrast its green exterior, with the red, white and yellow. I would stare longingly at my piece of the mango for a few seconds, before I took a bite. The explosion of taste: salt, spice and the sweet natural flavor of the mango, unique texture and aroma created a surge that my brain worked overtime to process!

Unfortunately, there always seemed more mouths than mangoes! The mango was devoured quickly and the only trace of anything ever have been on the plate was a scattered mix of leftover salt and paprika! Licking our lips, and savoring the gradually disappearing taste of the mango, was all we could do.

Later that week or just randomly sometimes, my grandmother would lament that the kids/miscreants never leave a single totapuri mango on the tree, by the end of every season. As she mentioned it, she would glance in my direction, and I would try and keep an expressionless face, feigning ignorance. I was certain she would have to know by now that I was one of the miscreants!

I did on occasion, as I grew older try the ones sold by street hawkers. They would be cut similarly with salt and paprika sprinkled for taste, and would even taste good, but somehow never the same…….

The tree which was just across from my childhood home, stood for many years until it was cut down to make way for the apartment complex that sprang up. When I visit home, I can sometimes imagine seeing the tree from my yard….even if its just for a fleeting moment……

Sometime ago, I had read a story called ” The Giving Tree” by Shel Silverstein. The story is about a relationship between a tree and a boy. The story follows the lives of an apple tree and a boy who develop a relationship with each other. The tree is very “giving” and the boy ages into a “taking” teenager, a young man, a middle-aged man, and finally an elderly man. The tree gives up everything until its finally a stump and the story ends with the boy, now an elderly man, with no further needs, sitting on the stump to rest, which still makes the tree ” happy”. The poignant tale reminded me of what we “take” from nature for our needs, but seldom reflect back in gratitude.

The relationship we form with these so called inanimate objects become part of our lives, and help shape our personalities. They make us more “human” even if they aren’t “alive” in the same manner as us. As my thoughts dwell on the long gone mango tree, I quietly thank it…… for being a small but important part of my life.