Kids nowadays have “summer camps”. I don’t have any memory of a summer or a winter camp. Do you?
I had a lovely destination to spend the summers at. A destination that would take my little self on the rusty red roads. A destination surrounded by mountains. A destination majorly occupied with mud houses bearing systematically tiled roof tops. There ain’t much mud houses left now. I would love this destination. It would be a retreat and an escape. Of course, from the school.
Just like, I had memories with my grandpa, I reminisce many with my granny. We had a few mango trees in our backyard. Tall, giant with their lush green leaves scattered haywire. Obviously, there wasn’t a concept of “Grafting”, back then. One would just sow a seed in the soil, let it germinate and wait for it grow. It would take years and years. And one day, these tress would rise gigantically, like an umbrella touching the sky, spreading its branches all around. The fruits yielded by these tress, would not be an “Alfonso” or “Hapus”, but still be mind-blowingly succulent and appetizing. The mangoes once ripen would automatically fall, or a long bamboo stick was used to pluck them. Granny would wrap the raw ones in dry grass, for them to ripe.
I recollect something of my granny that I’d find very weird then. She was a deep-dyed mango lover. After seeing the freshly plucked yellow-orange fleshy bubblies in the basket, her heart would go merry-go-round. Her favorite summer kitchen activity was nothing but to boil the mangoes. Then, squeeze out their juices. Pour it in a glass and guzzle it all at once.
“This! this is the best drink on the earth”, she would express in contentment, while she keeps the glass down.
You know, as a child, boiling mangoes, I found that extremely bizarre. However, growing old, I discovered several delicacies were made from boiled mangoes.
See you tomorrow with another fruit of the summer. And a memory.
Do Not forget to write me in the comments your memory with Mango:)