When the mango trees flower
By the start of April.
The taste buds on the tongue start
A revolt to have a taste of
The first ripened mango of
The season and they don't
Let you wait.
You pluck those tiny-bud-like
Mangoes in pursuit of your
Craving and you keep doing that
Compulsively till you find that
Final emancipating taste.
You go climbing trees and
Hitting private farms in summer
Holidays with all your harmless
Childish face but the owner
Chases you away.
You collect unripe mangoes from
The roadside to keep them for
Fruition in the paddy husk and
You don't have the patience to leave
Them to the forces of nature.
So you press them a couple of
Times a day to see if they're
Magically ripe and sometimes
The squishy pulp of the unripe ones
Makes you believe that it's ready,
Before it explodes its foul taste
In your mouth as a cold revenge.
But that's the grind right?
You chase around restlessly,
For that one over-aged ovary.
And when you find one, you peel
The skin and lick it well first.
Feed on the pulp and suck on
The stone till it's core is visible
And then play all day with the fibers
That get stuck in your teeth.