Mango happiness in the time of Coronavirus

Human, After All

One afternoon, not so long ago, a family moved in opposite our house. That same evening, India went into lockdown. They came in on the day which, in hindsight, was the last day of free movement as we knew it.

I also remember it as the time when the three mango trees in our yard were bending over with fragrant, juicy ripening mangoes. You know that delicious smell that you can sniff from a mile away.

We were harvesting about fifty mangoes a day, sometimes a hundred. There were buckets full. Only this scorching summer, there was no one to share them with. See, in our neighbourhood, pretty much everybody has mango trees. As we do in India, we share them around. We all do it -- when something special is cooked in our house -- payasam, kheer, laddoos, chicken curry; or a new special recipe is tried and it comes out well, our neighbours are the first ones to get it. Right?

So, there’s always jackfruit, bananas, coconuts, drumstick, mangosteen, rambutan coming our way or making its way out from ours to friends, relatives and neighbours.

This year was different. People were cautious. There was no movement. And so, we didn’t say hello to the new family, either. We’d see the man reading on the terrace in the morning; the teenage sons busy on their smartphones, probably playing PUBG or some such, the mother would sweep the verandah. We’d wave at each other, but that was about it.

Then one day, when the man saw me, he gestured for me to wait. He then shouted out a mobile number. I ran back inside, got a pen and a piece of paper and wrote it down. We called. His wife answered. They were new to Kochi. He’d been transferred from Kozhikode. The sons had been enrolled in a school but there were no classes. They knew a few people in town but hadn’t been able to connect. So, we were introduced to the Pillais.

Meanwhile, the coconuts began to ripen on the trees. Usually, men come round to the houses when the time is right to pick them. Somehow they know, miraculously. The mango trees continued to bear fruit. I never thought I’d say this, but we grew a bit bored with eating mangoes. After all, how much of the same variety can you eat every day. Mangoes are delightful because of the variety available in India. Bored of Banganapalli, let’s get Imam Pasand. Enough of Sindhooram, let’s buy Alphonso. Too much of Mallika, let’s choose Mulgoa.

The family opposite were settling in. Our waving to each other turned into phone conversations. A few days later, the phone rang. It was our new neighbour lady. “Hello,” she said. Pause. “Erm...,” she hesitated. I heard her sons whisper in the background: Come on, Amma, ask. “Can we have some of your mangoes,” she almost blurted out as if she feared she would change her mind again about asking. At last, someone to share the mangoes with.

That evening, we were ready with a bucket full of mangoes. The father and the sons were ready with their mundus folded up to their knees on their terrace. I threw a mango. Good catch. Another. Then another. One after another, they caught the mangoes like seasoned cricket fielders. We all went back inside, happy with our performance.

The next morning, the phone pinged. There were pictures of the new neighbours enjoying the Neelam mangoes, juice trickling down their chins. I smiled. Mango happiness in the time of Coronavirus.

(Anubha George Can keep a secret even while telling the [e-mail])