It’s a fruit and also a portkey that takes me back to the blue and red verandah of my ancestral home where we would dig into the flavorful sweetness of mangoes of various shapes and colors.
It was customary in our town to gift mangoes during summer, they would be placed inside a bucket filled with water for a day and then taken out, washed, cut into rectangular pieces. They would be placed inside a bucket filled with water for a day, then taken out, washed, and cut into rectangular pieces. The fleshiest pieces, called “anti,” were saved for the men and children, while the thinner pieces, known as “chakla,” were kept by the women for themselves.
The mango feast was scheduled after lunch and dinner. We would hastily finish both meals to rush off to the verandah, sit cross legged at our designated places waiting for the decadence to unfold.
The mango eating sessions were made more engaging by the generous helpings of family gossips that mostly made little sense to us kids, but were significant for the elders- also this was the most gender neutral activity in the household, bringing the elders together in unbridled enjoyment.
The simple act of eating mangoes turned into a ritual that transcended generations in our house, turning it into a core memory that transports me to my childhood whenever I indulge in a mango feast in the present.
Fingers in symphony 