The MANGO Saga

My father was extremely fond of raw mangoes,  especially the Totapuri variety. Addicted, really. My younger brother shared that trait and continues to be a mango devotee to this day.

When he was about seven or eight, one morning he heard the door-to-door telawala making his rounds, broadcasting in his usual singsong voice, the day’s offerings. According to my brother, he clearly heard him announce the arrival of mangoes, though none of us could hear a thing.

It was still the very beginning of the season, when mangoes were only just beginning to appear, so his claim sparked a sibling challenge. I was adamant that no such sound was heard. Both of us stood outside the gate, waiting. Slowly, as time passed, I began to doubt myself, or rather, doubt my victory,  because faintly I could hear a hawker’s call. Still, I played the street-smart elder brother, insisting he was selling vegetables, not mangoes.

Then, right at the corner of our street, maybe a hundred metres away,  the telawala appeared, cart in tow, selling vegetables to our neighbour. My hopes rose for a brief moment. But soon enough, he rolled his cart straight toward our house, and the bright parrot green beaked Totapuri mangoes gleamed in the basket. My brother was on cloud nine.

The wager was simple: if he was right, he’d get an extra mango. But mangoes at the start of the season were costly, and buying two instead of one was a stretch. Still, I had lost fair and square.

As we returned home, we both wondered how our father would react to the extravagance. To my surprise, he didn’t consider it a crime at all. My brother gleefully took charge of the first mango, slicing it deftly, adding a sprinkle of salt and chilli powder. Ever the elder brother, I was in my advising mode,  reminding him to think of others at home.

My father, of course, came to his defence. “He’s just a kid,” he said warmly, “he deserves a little indulgence.”

I couldn’t help but smile. There was a glint of pride in his eyes, his younger son had inherited his exact weakness for mangoes.

And just as my brother was done with the first and  reached out for the second mango, my father’s tone changed. It suddenly struck him that if the boy finished that one too, he would have none left for himself.

“Now, now,” he said, his voice turning mock-serious, “you should be conscious of others in the family too!”

And just like that, the mango saga ended, two against one, with my brother outnumbered but still wearing a mango-stained grin of victory.

I stood there, unsure if I’d get a bite,  or if my father was about to outdo my brother at his own game.



Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Credits, Close-Ups, and Collateral Damage

Image
With my dear friend and the artist Mr Sridhar Comaravalli His click 👇 The morning had already done its part, cool breeze, a reasonably disciplined jog, and the quiet satisfaction of having earned the impending indulgence of our breakfast ritual. As I slowed down near the lake, I was joined by a friend of over three decades, an artist of some repute, a cartoonist with a sharp eye for irony, and a photographer with an even sharper eye for detail. The lake, for him, was less about walking and more about waiting, waiting for the perfect bird, the most obliging butterfly, or an occasionally vain peacock to strike a pose. He had just wrapped up his morning’s “shoot,” while I had just about wrapped up my morning’s “struggle,” and together we waited for our third accomplice before proceeding to the more serious business of breakfast. It was during this interlude that he showed me a caricature, sent to him by someone, originally created by a well-known artist, but forwa...
Read more

Of Numbers, Notions, and a Timely Dosa

Today, after more than a couple of months, our core group of three finally reassembled at our morning headquarters, the Doddakalsandra Lake, with my artist friend, Sridhar, making a guest appearance.  The artist, as always, operates on a schedule known only to him and possibly a higher creative authority. Our lake features only after he has completed his circuit of other lakes, presumably ensuring that every bird, butterfly, and peacock in South Bangalore has been duly acknowledged before he graces our lake. Of the remaining three, one, after a long stint in the Middle East, has retired to take up farming recently near Mysore and has been busy with his annual harvest.  The other had been engaged in hospital rounds for a friend. Between crops and care, the quorum had clearly been at the mercy of real life. As is our long-established protocol, we arrive at different times depending on whether we are feeling athletic, ambitious, or merely present. Yet, almost miraculously, we con...
Read more

The Reluctant Sleeper

I had been a faculty member at the Bank’s training institutes, two years at the State Level and five years at the National Level. The training groups consisted of all categories of staff at the State Level, clerical and officers, while at the National Level, it was exclusively officers. The training centres were all residential, which meant participants stayed on campus, having come from different parts of the State or the Country. Each program had a coordinator who was responsible for preparing the training calendar, getting it approved, conveying the institute’s expectations to the participants during their stay, and addressing any concerns they might have. Typically, there were four sessions of an hour and a half each, two before lunch and two after, with a 30-minute tea or coffee break (and the inevitable biscuits) between each pair of sessions. During 2003–04, at one such State Level training centre in Bangalore, I was the coordinator for a week-long program for Probationary Offic...
Read more