An Alphonso Summer

By Akshata Kulkarni.

I have tasted your Kensington and endured the Calypso, but none to me tastes like my dear Alphonso. Amba, Aam or Mango—call it what you may—all signify the season of the bright yellow. While a bane to many, the constant sultry thirties are a blissful welcome to the child in me. An annual reminiscence of life it was and a loving reminder to live.

In the shade of the mango trees he planted, I loll on a hammock watching the patterned blue sky between the leaves. There are more mangoes in the yard than the clouds littered in the sky. The trees are big and weighed down, all ready to pop. ‘Get off from there. You’ll have a mango smashed face!’ he shouts.

‘Grandpa! That’ll be great. It’ll be right in my mouth, and I won’t have to wait,’ I squeal with delight.

The sweet summer smell of the ripe mangoes is mesmerising, inviting many unlikely visitors around. ‘Grandpa! We have monkeys for supper!” I exclaim.

‘Hello, friends. It’s nice to see you again. Have more mangoes, as many to your hearts’ content,’ he pleasantly entertains. With their bellies full and their smiles grateful, the gracious visitors hop their way out.

‘Come on in, it’s getting dark! You have been rolling in the muck all day long,’ he calls.

‘Coming, Grandpa! Are the mangoes ready yet? You promised me one if I finished all the veggies from my plate,’ I remind him.

Savouring the season’s first mango, the fresh pulp soon becomes a spell of staple delicacy. With a squeaky little voice, I ask, ‘Grandpa, may I have one more mango, please?’

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Akshata (uk-sha-ta) is a novice writer from India who calls Geelong her new home. She has masters degrees in Psychology and Management, resulting in various engagements with academics, consultancies, not-for-profits, and government. She works as an HR professional by day and dabbles into writing at night. She draws her writing inspiration from the fiction she devours.