Golu had a habit of forgetting things. Tell him something and within five minutes he would forget it. His parents were tired of his forgetfulness, especially his mother. She had to remind him several times to bathe, eat and get to school on time.
He also had the habit of leaving his things scattered around the house. His shoes would be lying on the terrace, and his clothes in the cow shed.
To tackle this, his mother started making him repeat her instructions again and again so that he would remember them.
“Golu, get me one kilo green mangoes from the village market,” his mother said. “ I want to make your favourite pickle for you this summer vacation.”
“Yes ma,” Golu nodded distractedly. He was thinking of the fast-approaching village fair and all the fun games he would get to play with his friends.
“Take this,” his mother handed him a raw mango.
She tucked some money into his shirt pocket. “If you forget what you need to buy, just look at the mango in your hand. Be careful at the market and don’t dirty your new clothes.”
“One kilo green mangoes for ma’s pickle,” Golu said walking out of his house.
“One kilo green mangoes for ma’s pickle,” he repeated, looking up at a tree.
A baby monkey sitting on the tree, eyed Golu’s mango. The monkey threw a half-eaten fig at Golu.
“You crazy creature,” Golu said angrily, throwing his mango up at the monkey.
The monkey tried to catch the mango, but fell from the tree in the process. Golu’s friends playing cricket under the tree, chased the monkey away. His best friend Popi caught the mango as it was about to hit the ground.
“Hey Golu,” Popi said, “do you want some tamarind in exchange for the mango?”
Golu’s mouth watered at the sight of the tangy treat.
“Sure,” Golu said accepting the tamarind. Seeing the tamarind in his hand, he started chanting again, “One kilo tamarind for ma’s pickle.”
The monkey followed him. On the way, Golu met Dhopi — the vegetable seller, carrying lemons and chillies in a basket.
“Hey Golu,” Dhopi said. “Do you want to exchange a lemon for the tamarind?”
“Yes!,” Golu said, licking his lips. He would make shikanji. It was his favourite drink.
Exchanging the lemon for the tamarind, Golu continued walking. He jumped over puddles, and spoiled his clothes in the process.
“One kilo lemon for ma’s pickle,” he chanted.
At the village well, he saw Kalnu the postman in conversation with Mithu the milkman. Golu chatted with them, keeping his lemon on the upturned bucket near the well. The monkey darted forward to snatch the lemon. But his feet got entangled in a rope and the lemon slipped out of its hand.
“Hey Golu,” Kalnu said catching the rolling lemon and shooing the monkey away. “Want to exchange your lemon for a gooseberry?”
“Sure,” Golu said. He loved eating gooseberry with salt.
Holding the gooseberry, he ambled down the path chanting, “One kilo gooseberries for ma’s pickle.”
At the temple he saw the priest standing outside.
“Golu, will you exchange my orange for your gooseberry?” the priest asked.
“Yes,” Golu said. He loved orange juice.
The monkey was now eyeing the orange.
Golu walked, muttering, “One kilo orange for ma’s pickle.”
As he neared the banyan tree, he noticed a farmer sitting under it. While Golu was chatting with the farmer, the monkey crept up to Golu and snatched the orange. As Golu chased the monkey, the animal tripped over the farmer’s legs and fell on its face, causing the orange to slip out of its hands. Golu picked up the orange.
“Golu, will you give me your orange for this guava?” the farmer asked. “You can sprinkle red chilli powder and eat it.”
“Of course,” Golu said, exchanging his orange for the guava.
Golu started walking, repeating, “One kilo guavas for ma’s pickle.”, as the monkey continued to follow him.
Approaching the village market, Golu looked around. “What did I come to the market for?” he scratched his head.
The monkey lifted a small bunch of bananas from a cart and started eating them one by one, throwing the peels on the road. As Golu stepped forward, he accidentally stepped on a banana peel.
“EEE,” Golu screamed, as he went flying. The guava fell from his hand as he landed on the fruit and vegetable seller’s cart.
Golu was sitting on a pile of fresh produce. There were lemons, mangoes, gooseberries, chillies, oranges, guavas and tamarind everywhere.
“What did ma want?” he frowned.
“Are you alright Golu?” his friend Popi rushed towards him, chomping a tangy mango.
“Ah! One kilo mangoes for ma’s pickle,” Golu suddenly remembered.