When mango mania strikes, I ditch my apple pie
and neglect my wife and my children.
The history of Lexington dims
and the street I live on,
where Paul Revere once galloped on his horse,
no longer ties me to this town.
India reigns in my mind –
the accordion pleats of a sari, orange jasmine blossoms against ebony hair,
the red sindoor on foreheads, the competitive cry of vendors,
the clanging of temple bells summoning late-comers,
the devout singers with their seductive, spiraling notes,
the dancer’s jangling anklets reaching a crescendo
as she hurtles forward on a brass plate,
the monsoon rain urgently pounding on rooftops,
the wafting scent of biryani that refuses to be banished from minds,
the calming fragrance of sandalwood in handicraft stores,
and the once elegant ancestral house,
decaying in the midst
of the scaffolding of residential buildings
rising around it like futuristic towers of doom.
As the craving becomes an obsession,
I know I must head
to the place where the ovoid fruit thrives
and is artfully reproduced on brocaded saris
that brides wear on their wedding day
and where the auspicious leaves of the mango tree
are strung along the entrance of homes on special occasions.
All one needs in life is a mango, smooth or pitted,
small or large, to be eaten or pureed into dessert.
At my uncle’s dining table, I watch my reflection
greedily devour Alphonso mangos.
I wipe the mango juice that dripples down my chin
with my hand and then I suck my fingertips.
My aunt remarks that I haven’t changed
nor have I forgotten my mother tongue.
You’re not stuck-up either, she says, watching
me wipe my chin with the heel of my hand this time.
The fruits taste like the ones I used to pluck from my mother’s garden
when, as a child, I’d ensconce myself on a lower branch
and balance a stainless steel container
dotted with chili powder and salt.
In my absence, the urchins would aim their slingshots
at our fruit and wander off with their spoils.
A week later, satiated with my uncle’s mangos,
tired of the ceaseless hammering of laborers,
the nocturnal braying of dogs auguring death,
the relentless sun creating beads of sweat,
the never-ending stream of visitors coming to see me,
and the stench of overflowing garbage on the streets,
my thoughts flit across an ocean to America.
I miss my adopted town,
where sounds, sights, and scents are more subtle
and where mangos can be bought or gifted,
but none are as flavorful
as those plucked in my ancestral home.
In my mind I’m already in Lexington,
where the Chinese, Brazilians, Pakistanis, Armenians
and others have also made themselves at home
and where we indulge in the American passion
for frozen yogurt even in chilly temperatures,
our portions widening with the years
until we feel the need to practice austerity.
On my last evening, my uncle chuckles,
drums his fingers on the table, and says he won’t see me
until mango mania strikes me again.
Then he winks, knowing he can depend
on my cravings to guide me back to his table.
Tara Menon is a freelance writer based in Lexington, Massachusetts. Her poetry is forthcoming in “Tiger Moth Review.” The following journals and anthologies have published her poetry: “Yearning to Breathe Free,” “Blue Minaret,” “The Bangalore Review,” “voices ofeve,” “Calliope,” “Lalitamba,” “AzizahMagazine,” “Aaduna,” “Yellow as Turmeric, Fragrant as Cloves,” “the view from here,” and “10×3 plus poetry.” Her nonfiction has appeared in “TheCourtship of Winds,” “The Boston Globe,” “The Kenyon Review,” “Green Mountains Review,” “Fjords Review,” “Na’amat Woman,” “Calyx,” “India Currents,” “Parabola,” “India NewEngland,” “Lokvani,” and “Hinduism Today.” Her fiction has appeared in several journals and anthologies.
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