Avery’s mango

Avery’s fascination for mangoes was superbly intense. She wasn’t quite sure if it was the appearance of a ripened yellow alphonso mango, or the smell that perforated the room when it was cut, or rather the way the fruit melted on her tongue under the smallest of resistances from her teeth.

It began from a very early age. Her grandparent’s stone-walled house had a lone mango tree in the yard. And while that mango tree wouldn’t really produce these superior kind of mangoes, Avery began to predict the onset of mango season during Indian summers by looking at this tree. The minute she would see younger sour green mangoes propping out, she would start getting antsy. And she would remain jumpy until her grandfather arrived home with a large wooden case of 36 alphonso mangoes.

Each day, as mangoes ripened in the box, she would grab herself that yellow fruit and immerse herself into it. Sitting on the verandah or perhaps on the ground in the yard, she paid no heed to the yellowing of her mouth or staining of all her dresses.

The summers lasted as long as the boxes lasted. Eventually she was returned to the city with her parents. She immediately yearned for the next summer.

Over time, the yard vanished. The stone walled house was sold. Summers were spent with friends and not grandparents. Yet, like a biological clock, Avery’s pangs for Mangoes never settled down. Perhaps not a mango a day, but not one summer would pass without her plastering her face silly with mango flesh.

Until of course, she grew much older. With a boy who had always adored her despite her fetish for mangoes. It was only a matter of time before the boy asked and she said yes. As marriages go, it was quite simple forward. As romances go, it was still continuing past the nuptials.

However, this boy, his love and her feelings for him have nothing to do with this story, and for the sake of brevity shall be ignored.

Marriage brought change. Mostly geographical. Avery suddenly found herself an ocean and a sea farther from her beloved mangoes. But she had barely time to notice this as she plunged into matrimonial bliss in another country, regardless of the native fruits. Soon, summers equated to travel, adventures and holidays with the spouse. All of it was mango-less.

Not many summers passed, before she was pregnant with a child. And this is when priorities like an alphonso mango took a definite back seat. Through nine months of nurturing herself, she spent the next nine nurturing two bodies. Seasons came and went unannounced. She was clocking herself by her babies feeding cycle.

Avery often wondered if her daughter despite looking just like her had carried over any of her traits.

The summer struck like clockwork. But this time New Jersey acted like the yard she never had. And her husband took over the responsibility of bring mangoes in the house just like her grandfather, albeit in a Styrofoam packaging which preserved the shape of those magnificent fruits perfectly.

Avery was also painfully obvious of the fact that young kids barely could stand plethora of flavors in their fruits. So she was very unsure when she cut open a mango neatly and diced the fruit into smaller easily chewable pieces and offered her daughter, her first bite of a fruit which Avery so loved.

The daughter opened her mouth wide as mommy Avery advanced the soft plastic fork. Slowly she chewed on it, her eyes conveying the transgression of moods. The chewing stopped and was followed by a gulp. Meanwhile, her disproportionally large eyes grew larger with delight. And before she opened up for the next bite, Avery daughter showed a definite smile.

I don’t have to tell you that Avery’s very little daughter finished the sizably big mango on her own. Nor do I have to tell you that life’s full circles don’t come along once only once.