The summer rain fell pitter-patter across the front yard and the fields and over the canal. The trees swayed caught in the gusty winds, making a whooshing sound. Small streams of brown muddy water drained down to join the big stream flowing outside. Now and then, we heard the rumbling of thunder. And sometime later the rain stopped as abruptly as it had started. We barged out of the front door, running to the thodi to pick mangoes that had fallen off the old moovandan maavu in the rain. It sometimes reminded me of gold rush. After collecting the mangoes, we looked up at the tree - it was indeed sweet victory for us over the high and mighty branches of the mango tree. The celebrations then culminated with an indulgent mango-eating ritual that truly reinforced theories of evolution, for all of us resembled our tailed ancestors in the wild way in which we ate mangoes, licking the juice dribbling down our palms sometimes beyond the wrists.
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The yellow fruit almost looked plastic neatly arranged on the fruit stand in the store. A clear handwriting in black ink below it said - Rs 40 per kg. It took me a lot of time to decide on two from the lot. I quickly paid for those, and rushed to my room. I washed one, peeled its skin, and diced it into small pieces, on to a plate, and gulped them down like I had been deprived of mangoes for long.
Gosh, when did I forget how to eat mangoes? Like they say in that ad - why grow up?
PS: For the Malayalam challenged, thodi is typically the yard adjoining the house, abounding with trees and plants of all kind. Moovandan is a mango variety, and maavu means mango tree.
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