This is the story of the mango-Mangifera indica.

 

            “Sujata, Sujata!” Kenesha bellowed from behind as I put down the half-finished basket I was weaving, got up, and rushed over to the group, who had already started the feast. The red dust I kicked up began to settle behind me.

 

            Sun baked the land. Cracked it was, not by the trampling herds of elephant or families of water buffalo, but rather by the searing rays of the sun. Merciless, the grass had all gone dry and crispy, looking much like the fur of my mangy old dog, Parvati. Her time was almost up and it might just as well be her last season. Acrid smoke from bushfires could be seen emanating from behind the trees on the southern hill. We were safe in the village. Perched on a knoll and surrounded by acres of plantations, we were strategically located. This was our India.

 

            It was not at all unusual. There was no need for alarm, as we sang and ate the succulent fruit, taking in breaths of the balmy air, oblivious to the smoke from the distant forest whose robes had come undone in the drought, only to reveal skeletal silhouettes of its former self. Charred looking indeed were the trees, which could do nothing but to face the constant onslaught from the sun above, as they ended up look like toothpicks. It was Mango Season they said, for when it was hot and dry, the mangoes were just right for picking.

 

            Hanging like lanterns from above, the grove was proliferated by mangoes. The trees were lavishly decorated by the fruit, to the point of becoming ostentatious. The olive green leaves had been sloughed off, only to reveal beautiful mangoes. Full and red, like the backside of a baboon, the elders said, complimenting their voluptuousness, yet they were shy and tender, peeking from under the branches. Temptresses they were. Beacons they were to us, gazing at the grove from the village above, signally for the villagers to come down and pluck them. They were sweet mangoes.

 

            The lack of water had caused their ochre pulp to be laden with saccharine juice. The colors of sunset they were. Hues of pink, red and orange intermingled into one solid fruit. This was village pride. We loved our mangoes. New trees are planted every year by the elders while the old ones become laden with fruit, arching over with their produce, burdened, but nevertheless splendid, as if they were trying to offer us their goods.

 

            We sat on the rattan mats. With mango in hand, we slurped up the heavenly flesh of our slim pickings while the sticky juice ran from our hands down to our elbows. Savoring the flavor of that the hot dry land bestowed upon the mangoes. The dogs watched us with anticipation, waiting for us to throw the large seeds at them to suck. They knew what they were in for. It was food of the gods and they wanted their share of it, even if it meant eating leftovers. Scraps.

 

            Mangoes were only plucked when they were really ripe, that way, we were sure to get the most delicious ones. The sap of unripe mangoes has yet to mature into juice, so biting into one would surely sting your tongue; after all, the sap of a mango tree is extremely poisonous. Flocks of cattle egret marked the horizon, signally the onset of dusk. Their cries resounding as the dark buffalo moved out of the fields where they were toiling all day.

 

            Mango Season had not peaked, and so most of the mangoes were still not ready. They were still under incubation, gestating their sumptuous delight within them. We had to wait a while more for the fruits to be in their prime. It is like clockwork, so perfectly timed, when the trees become so heavy that their outer branches begin to break and buckle as we go in to remove their burden in a bid to save these self-less providers. They had souls and we cared for the trees the same way they cared for us. It was our mutual obligation.

 

            Mango season this year was going to be fleeting for what was about to happen like the wispy clouds that disappearing after briefly enveloping the full moon, which shone above us, its radiant glow painting the village a lighter shade of pale. We still were sitting out in the open, bathed in the niveous glow and seeking solace from the shadow of the night.

 

            Something would happen to the trees while we were blinded by this dark , star spangled blanket. We heard sounds coming from the grove. Sounds of destruction they were. The sound of breaking bones, crumbling under brute force. An occasional trumpet broke this monotony, so loud that the roosting birds were alarmed. Startled, they flew out their nests, wings brushing against the remaining leaves of the trees. The rustling sound produced was as if the trees were shivering, fearful as they foresaw their impending fate. Scared they were. We always knew that the soul of a tree could look into the future. That’s why they were so strong and resilient. But not tonight. Not tonight.

 

            Everyone knew what was happening for we had an affinity for the trees, a spiritual connection. Maybe it was intuition, and follow our hearts we did as it was sure to lead us in the right direction. We dreaded for this day to befall us, our folklore told us, inscribed since times of old, repeatedly sung, danced and performed. Yet it did and it struck us painfully at the heart of mango season. Each crunch was as if we were being gashed by a machete, and many gashes we bore that night, more painful than the bite of a king cobra, as tears filled my eyes. Bitter tears of sadness and helplessness.

 

             The entire village was awake. Listening. Ears tuned in to the distance. Alert as everyone sat up from their slumber in the warm night. Waiting. Hoping, for the brutality to end. We could not go out to save them. The enemy was too strong and we were nothing against it. Like the samba deer to the tiger, we would be killed. All we could wish for was that he would not come for us. No. Not our village.

 

            What so devastating could possibly happen, you may be wondering. It all was so peaceful before. The village was one heart with everything. I tried to deceive myself, to suppress the pain. Telling me, myself and I that this was not true. So foolish and naïve of me as I tried to convince myself otherwise. Eventually emotion took over me and I cried myself to sleep, wetting the grass mat below me as I lay next to Kanesha, who hugged Parvati with dread, the latter whining softly. Sad too it was. Pining.

 

            A new day had come. Announced by the repeated crowing of the village fowl. I dared not get out of bed. It was Kenesha, my sister; face still marred by tear stains cutting across her complexion like Ganges’ tributaries, who dragged me out to go with to the grove with her.

 

             Parvati followed not far behind us as our slippers patted against the bone-dry ground. Slowly and gently. Comforting the ground with the light pats. We were making for the grove, with muted anticipation. We were sad, yet curiosity got the better of us.

 

            It was a mess. Legend was true. The bark of our precious trees was torn off. Stripped they were. Beautiful, they were no longer. They were destined to a slow, painful death. Sap drained down their naked trunks, the color of white skin as Parvati sniffed around then started licking the ground. She was blind and had to rely on smell. She too, like the trees, was failing.

 

             The ground was a mess of yellow-the bright yellow of ripe mangoes. Branches and bark, all broken and dismembered, added to the palette. Ruptured, bruised and squashed as they littered the ground with sunburst color. Vivid fruits they were, even when pureed. Wasted and broken, their fragrance was nevertheless still overwhelming and inviting and enticing. They just smelt so good. Forbidden fruit it was. No longer edible. But they still tickled our senses in their downtrodden state. The birds had already come at dawn and vulture shit abound, dotting the melee of squashed mangoes like sesame seeds.

 

            In the abyss of the night, a bull elephant, according to legend, entered the grove. He was in musk. It was mating season and he had to vent his sexual frustration. Destruction was what he turned to. He did not tear up the trees because he wanted the mangoes. He was controlled by his mood. Erratic and unpredictable at this time of year-Mango Season.

 

            The villagers were not sad. Celebrations still carried on per se, albeit with no mangoes. They were still happy people, as if nothing had actually happened and continued going about their normal lives. Rice was still being harvested, tea picked, and the cows milked. Did they not care about the plight of the trees, now dying as the sun evaporated all life force from within them in their reduced forms, fallen from grace since the fateful night? I, traumatized still, could not come to my senses and comprehend what was going on. I was perplexed at their obliviousness and callousness.

 

            Things started to become clearer and I now understand that it was all about village pride.

 

 

            Parvati has since died. I only realized what this was all about, years later, after I left the village and migrated here.

 

            We lived at peace with nature. What happened was indeed sad but we had to get over it. We could not let our pride be reduced to nothing, even if it was, literally, just because of that one bull elephant, so small and humble a being of Mother Nature. We still held our pride high in our hearts. We loved the village. As proud as ever, even if it meant Mango Season was only to resume eight years later, when the seeds finally matured into luxuriant trees, living and nourishing their fruits on the rotted remains of the previous grove-beautiful trees with bright red mangoes, tempting me fly back every year to savor their succulent offerings.

 

             I will never forget that particular Mango Season.

 

 

{ The End }