Aruna Ravikumar

Abstract Comedy Others

4  

Aruna Ravikumar

Abstract Comedy Others

A Midsummer night's dream

A Midsummer night's dream

6 mins
198


 It was the green one. My mom had always preferred the golden yellow, juicier version of it. But for me, it was always the green one. Whether it was the neatly sliced and diced ones, dusted with powdered chilli , attractively displayed on the cart stalls teeming the entrance of the Marina beach or those red tinged ones hanging so invitingly low in strictly fenced groves that tempt even the most conscience fearing ones to make a quick grab and run for it. It was always the green mango.

 I sat in the swing in the balcony, with a plateful of boat shaped pieces of the verdant tropical heaven. I took a luscious bite and as the sweet sour taste sprayed inside my mouth, it induced vivid memories of musky yellow summers. There was something about summer that made even the most docile inexpressive boy who sits in a safe corner of the classroom yelp with joy. So it is no surprise that for someone as boisterous as I, summers make me hum boneyM’s, “ hooray! Hooray! It’s holiholiday! Sing a summer song, skip along, It’s a holi holiday!”. It’s that time of the year, when bright sunlight explodes in all directions, kissing the fully bloomed pink hued bougainvillea and the roads are carpeted in red with the flamboyant Gulmohar flowers. 

The first thing I remember about summers was that it was packed with cousins, from near and far. Those were days when air conditioning was the billionaire’s paradise, and for the modest rest, a table top fan in addition to the ceiling fan was the utmost affordable luxury. There was always a scramble for the best place, below the fan. As the youngest, I of course won, without competition (All I had to do was pull a puppy face). 

Being the youngest gave me a lot of other privileges that you will discover as you read on. In the mornings, the aroma of freshly cooked dough for sundried rice crispies tempered with cumin, wafting from the kitchen nudged our noses awake. Within seconds and with speed that would put Usian Bolt to shame, we would rush to the bathroom to brush and race to the terrace to gobble up the hot delicious gooey goody. While we were busy guzzling up, the adults prepared for sun drying the remaining, that we big heartedly agreed to spare. Our magnanimity, of course, came with the ulterior motive of stealing the half dried discs spread on white cloth. If the fresh dough was scrumptious, the semi dried pieces were yummy succulent heaven. 

If you’re wondering what the connection between mangoes and summers are, I won’t keep you in suspense for much longer. Living in an independent house that had a large backyard meant a lot of greenery. We had every species of flora and well, the accompanying fauna too. Our garden was a woody Shangri-La. Sweet smell from squirrel bitten guava combined with nectarous scent of Sapota was intoxicating. But the true heady sensation was created by the cocktail of tangy, citrusy, sweet and sour fragrance that hits you from an assortment of mango trees. Statistics say that there are around 283 types of mango cultivated in India, and I’m positive that our mini forest had at least half the number. From the humble Rumani to the pompously fragrant banganapalli, we had it all. For me, it was like a child locked with a room full of toys! Of course, I was a child back then.

 I distinctly remember this particular afternoon, when all the adults were enjoying their siesta, after warning us of dire consequences of plucking mangoes. This cautioning set off even the most mango averse cousin of ours to be tempted to taste the enticingly suspended forbidden fruit. So all of us huddled together to plan the kidnapping of the large bulky mango. As the baby of the group, I was never really seriously consulted, though I was jumping up and down enthusiastically to contribute to the discussion. Hurt deeply, I silently plotted my own revenge. The plan was finalised. One would stay near the door to watch for adults, while the others would make a manual ladder to reach up and get the mango. After ensuring that they had heard the rumble of a medley of snores, the plan was executed, while I sulked in a corner. Once the mango was plucked, it was very quietly and neatly divided. One cousin wanted to have it with salt and chilli , but was hushed down by the others saying that was pushing our luck too far. I was given two pieces. Uncharacteristically, I didn’t demand more. I quietly devoured one piece. After everyone had finished theirs, I carried out my revenge. Oh did I mention that as a child I was a snitch? Well ok, stop judging. I was a kid, and all kids are tell-tales. So after I relished my mango I went straight to the adults and complained. For proof I showed them the other piece of the mango. And what a bashing my cousins got! None of them spoke to me for the rest of the afternoon. One cuz in fact said angrily, “Squealer! You also had a piece of that mango. Your Stomach will ache!” But nothing could perturb me, as I was proudly basking in my achievement and bit into my piece of evidence. 

Being the youngest, a small child, always made you a big hindrance to seriously fun games of older kids. So, in the evenings, when my cousins and their friends played hide n seek, I was neither invited nor could I force my way in. The house being an independent one with a terrace and trees was a haven for “ice boys!” as it was locally called. Having no playmates my own age, I sat in the patio longingly watching them play. I had tried everything from blinking my big deer eyes sadly to throwing a tantrum. But nothing had worked. So, in my scheming mind, I decided to teach them a lesson. Eyes blazing with Machiavellian fury I went about revealing the hiding places of everyone and spoiled their fun. So my cousins, who were also wily, decided to include me, but with a caveat unknown to me (at least that’s what they thought). I was to be a dummy. The baby sister should never be the catcher. They assumed that I was an innocent clueless little darling who could be fooled but discovered soon that I was not to be deceived that as, the second after the catcher had finished counting; I would come out of my hiding. They had no choice but to make me catcher. All in all, I remember how I made their life miserable. But it was great fun! 

The cool breezy nights of yesteryear summers used to make us quiver with pleasantness. After having sweated in gallons, and then bathed, clothed and stomachs grumbling with hunger, we gathered in a circle in the terrace to devour Nila choru ( food under moonlight). Grandma made big balls of tasty rice and plopped one into each of our palms. We could hardly wait our turn, and used to try to score a handful even before she reached us. The setting was what one would call idyllic. The big moon, the star studded dark sky, the chatter in between relishing mouthfuls, the balmy gust of wind tickling our ears and playing with our hair, the happy laughter...... Yes... The happy laughter... sounded distant as I came out of my deep reverie, sighing. Those were the days. Today, everything had changed, the landscape, the people, the trees, the house and of course the little tell-tale me. The only constant all through this was my love for the green one. Yes, it was definitely the green one.


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