Mangopunk

Anarchic South Indian mango trees and humid summers

Welcome to Summer Lightning - essays about finding story worthy moments in every day life

I briefly wrote about mango trees before in Ghost Trees

Here is my essay about how some stories tend to keep repeating

The evening air was thick and warm. I was at a party. One man grilled burgers, and the others stood around drinking beers. It is some kind of ritual suffering around here to stand around a grill in the summer and contribute nothing. I partook reluctantly. A blonde man in the men's grill huddle asked me where I was from and inevitably followed it up with, "Do you miss India?" I replied that I miss having mangoes in the summer. He told me the peaches here are probably as good in the summer. I did not correct him. 

There was a mango tree in the front yard of the house that I grew up in. This was not uncommon - almost two out three neighbors had a mango tree in their yard, usually in the front of the house. A full grown mango tree tied together the anterior landscape of the home. Families took pride in their mango trees. 

I remember the summer when our mango tree bloomed for the first time. It produced plentiful. The branches were weighed down by little green mangoes. There were mangoes wherever you looked and sometimes they evaded your gaze and hid behind thick green leaves. Neighbors would pause during their evening strolls to gaze at the mangoes and some would count them. After a heavy downpour, I would notice the front yard covered in little mangoes that did not age enough to be plucked. I found a half-eaten mango on the ground every other day. My mom said that it was either a bat or a squirrel that ate it. I felt the need to protect the tree and our blessed harvest, but no one else bothered - the tree produced enough for us, the rodents, and we still had some left over to give away to the neighbors. It seemed like the summer would never end and the mango tree would never cease producing. 

It was also the summer I had my first crush. I was 8. The only thing I remember about her is that she did not have a mango tree in her yard and that she liked to climb our mango tree. During the hot humid days of the summer break, a group of us would roam around the streets looking at mango trees in the yards of our neighbors. The objective was to find mangoes that were ripe enough and hung at a height that a child could reach. We either climbed the tree or sometimes attempted to knock the mangoes down by aiming a stone at the little stems that suspended the mangoes in mid air. Most neighbors did not welcome this but turned a blind eye to such little mischiefs. A few neighbors lost their temper or informed our parents. This had the opposite effect they desired and mango plucking intensified in their yards. I suspect we plucked the most mangoes from the yard of a man who had a really short temper with kids. There is some parable in there somewhere. 

In the afternoons, we would dice the stolen mangoes into little cubes and mix them with red chili powder, salt, and a lot of coconut oil. We nibbled on this afternoon snack while playing Monopoly or Life on the front porch of one of our friends. Looking back, it seems like we had the best of both worlds - we had the mangoes that you could only find in the tropical heat and humidity of South Asia and the best that the West had to offer, which were little escaped realities like board games and computer games. The mangoes and the games made you forget the heat and rewarded your mundane suffering of the summer. 

A significant part of my writing is around memories that are most likely tinged with nostalgia - even if I attempt to resist that impulse. But how much nostalgia? I went looking for good mangoes in Austin to find out. The bland GMO mangoes that you find at the supermarket did not pass the assessment. I thirsted for something closer to the tropical mangoes of my childhood. I found a few at Central Market - the local equivalent (I would argue superior) of Whole Foods. There were four peach-sized mangoes in a plastic bag. Priced at $15. I got them on a Saturday morning in June and set aside the afternoon to share it with Camille. 

Eating mangoes is messy but there is no other way around it. You just have to commit to the task and not be too precious about how the act unfolds, how it looks and the amount of napkins required. 

I remember that afternoon like yesterday. The morning and the week before had been weary. I moved slowly as I went to the kitchen to get the mangoes. I gave one to Camille and bit into the mango in my hand. A shudder ran across my body. My skin felt lucid, and the harsh rays of the afternoon sun through the window transfigured into a soft warmth that filled the room. I looked at Camille and she stared at me as if we had met in a dream. I licked the juices that had dripped onto my fingers with every bite. 

Sometimes, when I'm laying in the living room where we shared the mangoes, I turn to Camille and ask, "Do you remember the mangoes we had?" 

"That was the best mango I've ever had," she would reply

One time, I followed up with, "Better than Fredericksburg Peaches?"

"Well, the peaches hold a special place in my memory. They are probably the equivalent of what mangoes are to you," she replied, then paused. 

I began to think that it was nostalgia after all. Then, perhaps sensing my melancholy or knowing the truth in her heart, Camille continued, "But those mangoes might be the best fruit I've ever had." 

The mango tree in my childhood home ceased yielding as much after that one glorious summer. It got infested with worms. The tree lived on - still defining the anterior landscape of the home and shading the living room from direct sunlight. Then, one day, my father decided to cut down the big branches of the tree. It was reduced to a long pole with a few branches at the top. Something died that day and haunted my family for a while. The tree stopped producing mangoes entirely. 

Several years passed. No one noticed the tree anymore—not us, not the neighbors, not even the rodents. It did not provide shade but blocked my view when backing up the car. 

The summer before I left to the United States the tree began to bloom again. Not as prolific as the summer I remember but enough to catch our attention. I expressed surprised but my mom said, "Mango trees tend to do that." They are an anarchist species suppose - hard to make really good ones on an industrial scale, not bending easily to your will, resilient and surprising. 

The result of a majority in the neighborhood having a mango tree in their yard was a sense of mutualism. We never went a summer without home grown mangoes because our neighbors or extended family gave away the mangoes in their respectful bountiful harvests. People gave away mangoes to loved ones and to the neighbors they hate simply because there were too many mangoes. 

Perhaps this is why people tended to have their own mango trees in their yard. It said something about the indifference of nature and may be spoke to an anarchic and mutualist impulse in everyone. May be I'll go back for some mangoes some day.