Of Mangoes & Home

Summers are the smell of mangoes. Mango trees are just so full of integrity. The smell is there through its root, bark leaves, flowers, and fruit. Like an omnichannel marketing ploy with consistent brand messaging. Maybe I learned this here.

Summers are childhood nostalgia and mangoes their brand ambassador See? I did it again? Imma slay my MBA, you guys.

As ads showed summer as the time when children spent at their grandparents. I had quite the opposite story. Every summer, I packed my bags to travel from Jamshedpur to Bharuch in Howrah-Ahmedabad Express to go and stay with my parents. My parents worked and lived in Bharuch then. My father loved mangoes. From then to now, every summer we went to farms and got sacks of kesar. Nana-Nani used to buy few kilos of langda and malda.

As summer months approached Nana used to haggle with the Adivasis selling mangoes in Sakchi and get a few kilos. Nani took out her hasua and cut them. She with Nana’s help ground the spices. Then she put them in glass jars and kept them in the sun. Then they stayed out in the afternoon sun. Nana lied on the folding cot right next to the pickles to ensure that birds didn’t come and feed on them. He laid there with a newspaper. Nana bought the cheapest newspaper. He just needed to read. It didn’t matter if there were a few pages less or the quality of the paper was poor. It was Uditavni before priced at 1.5 rupees. A little later another paper came to the market, BharatMitr that was priced at 1 rupee. That became Nana’s favourite. Except on Thursdays and Sundays when he spent five rupees to buy the Telegraph because I liked to read Telekids and Graphiti. My parents had The Times of India come every day.

Papa helped Maa cook as much as Nana helped Nani. But Maa was a working woman. She had no summer vacation. She didn’t have the time to make pickles. Not even on a weekends. Her weekends were for weekend IT support. It has been more than two decades to this life. My parents have seen their sacrifices bear fruits. Today they occasionally pause and breathe.

We now live in a house that has a resplendent garden. Years ago my parents didn’t even have a potted plant in their house. It was a contrast when I went from living with my grandparents. They used to spend a good hour every day watering their plants. Today when I ask Nani to come and stay with me her number 1 excuse is “Podhe ko panni kaun paatayega?”

My father occasionally spends time in the garden. Yesterday as I stepped out of my room, I saw him climbing on a ladder and plucking all the mangoes. My mother for the first time in years sat down and made pickles and jam. I wonder if it was years of culinary aspirations that she finally has found the time to pursue. Or is it her boredom induced by a year of WFH that’s finding its way into tangy appearances on my food palette?

The mango tree makes us very self-sufficient. During Navratri, my parents had to do a havan. Papa swiftly broke a few branches from the tree. He put oil and burnt it like a funeral pyre. It is ironic how nerve cells work. A puja for good health reminded me of a time when one was lit for my Nana. It was in 2018. He died and left us grieving. Nani, as they lifted his corpse for last rites, hugged and told me,”Mera mann nahi bhara tha.” That sense of loss that pierced her heart had pierced mine too. I spent weeks scrolling through my gallery looking at photos of moments when Nana breathed and life was full. Nani now lives alone in a home they once built together.

They had built the home for themselves two and half decades ago as their fledglings left their nest. They continued to spend their time together. Today Nani lives there all alone. Their bed creaks. The walls have cracks. She still won’t leave it for the world.

My parents have moved so many houses that home for them is where they have each other.

This might feel like an abrupt beginning, middle and end, but then such is life. And here am I once again using philosophy to justify for ample laziness and absolute lack of creativity in the present day to complete this piece I wrote two years ago at the beginning of my journey when a writing prompt became an exercise in rediscovery of the stark contrast in my two set of primary care-givers.