Amulya Malladi - The Mango Season

“I don’t like being yelled at in my own house by my own granddaughter,” Thatha started without preamble as soon as my father went into the hall. “I feel the way I feel and I will continue to feel that way.”

I stared at the white cloth that was draped around his hips and wondered why south Indian men persisted to wear this garb in the twenty-first century. It was great during the summers, but still, a thin sheet of cloth wrapped around your legs was hardly protection. Added to that was how men did not wear any underwear beneath the lungi. One false, thoughtless move and all was open for public viewing. I had seen my share of penises because of the fascination south Indian men had for lungis.

“Are you listening to me?” Thatha demanded.

“I’m listening,” I said a little cockily. “But I was not raised to keep silent when people unjustly-”

“You were not raised to raise your voice in the presence of elders,” Thatha interrupted me.

“Well, everything that Ma and Nanna taught didn’t stick,” I said, and shrugged. “Come on, Thatha, what were you thinking? That I’m a little shy girl? I’m not… You’ve always known that.”

Thatha took my hand in his and nodded. “No, you were always the one with the sharp temper. Not a good thing in a girl… even an American-returned one.”

“I’m sorry I raised my voice, but I’m not sorry about the male heir remark,” I said in compromise. If the old man was going to meet me halfway, I could manage the other half.

“I need a male heir and I thought this discussion was over,” he said.

“You brought it up again,” I sighed, and decided to make some amends for my bad behavior. “Thatha, sometimes I don’t like the way you think and sometimes I don’t like the way my entire family thinks. You know what, it doesn’t make a difference. I still love you all very much and I’ll always love you. But that doesn’t mean I have to nod my head when you say something wrong.”

That seemed to get to him. I think the “I love you” part did it. He patted my hand and rose from his chair. “It is okay. Come inside and have coffee.”

Just like that, Thatha forgave me.

Forgave me? What had I done that needed forgiving?

The sun started to set, sliding slowly and lazily into the horizon as we put away the pickle jars in the storeroom next to the kitchen.

“Priya, I have to buy some coriander and some kadipatha for dinner. Are you up for a walk?” Nanna asked me. It was almost automatic for him to find some reason or the other to leave Thatha’s house.

“Ashwin-garu, we don’t really need the curry leaves and I can manage without the coriander,” Sowmya said, worried that she was inconveniencing my father.

Ma looked at me sternly and then looked at Sowmya. “Let them go. You go with your father, Priya.”

I raised my eyebrow and then looked at my father curiously. “What’s going on?”

“We need kadipatha. Rasam without kadipatha… is like… the States without the Statue of Liberty,” Nanna said. “Come on, Priya,” he urged as he slid his feet into Anand’s leather slippers, which were lying in the veranda shoe rack.

Before anyone could mount any more protest, Nanna and I were out of the house.

“Is it me or is that house very stuffy?” Nanna said, taking a deep breath.

“It’s probably you,” I said, and slipped my hand in his. “You think we can get ganna juice?”

“You will fall sick,” Nanna warned, “but if you don’t mind vomiting and having a stomach infection for the rest of your trip, definitely.”

“I won’t fall sick and I had goli soda today afternoon. Today morning I couldn’t eat the mangoes Ma wanted me to taste but I’ve gotten over that now… hygiene is not an issue anymore,” I said.

“Let us hope that you don’t fall sick,” Nanna said, squeezing my hand.

“Why did Ma want us to go out?” I asked.

“I have no idea why your mother wants us to do what she wants us to do. Has been a mystery for twenty-nine years,” Nanna said. “Now, you can have your ganna juice but no ice.”

One of the less illicit things that I used to love doing and Ma warned me against was eating chaat, spicy food, from roadside vendors and drinking sugarcane juice. Sugarcane juice stands were scattered throughout the city of Hyderabad and came to life during the summer. Long stalks of sugarcane lay on a wooden stand on wheels next to a metal juicer. The juicer was two large wheels with spikes rolling against each other. The stalk of sugarcane along with a small piece of lemon and ginger would be squeezed through the twin wheels. The sugarcane vendor would run one stalk through and then roll the squished stalk and run it through the wheels again.

The juice would be poured into glasses that were probably not washed in clean water, ever, along with a lot of ice. It was my favorite thing to drink after a long day at college. Usually the sugarcane stands and chaat stands were lined up next to bus stops. So while I waited for my bus, I would shell out the two rupees it used to take to get ganna juice. I always asked the vendor to not put ice in my juice. I figured that way I would get more juice and I would not have to speculate where the ice came from. The rumor was that the vendor probably got the ice from a morgue.

“Okay, no ice,” I conceded. “Any news from Nate?”

“No, Nate never has any news,” Nanna said. “He may be back tomorrow but I doubt he will come here. You know he can’t stand Lata or Jayant.”

I shrugged.

“I think Nate has a girlfriend,” Nanna continued and I stopped walking. “What?” Nanna asked looking at me. “Let us walk, we have to get kadipatha.”

I sighed.

“So you think Nate has a girlfriend,” I said, playing along with him.

“Has he said anything about her to you?” Nanna asked, as we reached the small vegetable store at the end of the street from Thatha’s house.

I looked at the various vegetables sagging in their small straw baskets at the end of the day and got a bunch of kadipatha. A few people milled around the baskets, picking up vegetables for the last meal of the day.

“They look half dead,” I said about the coriander my father had in his hand.

“They will do,” Nanna said, and put the kadipatha and coriander in front of the vendor and paid the ten rupees they cost from his old brown leather purse.

“You still have that purse?” I asked. “You’re not using the one I sent for your birthday last year?”

“Nate took that,” Nanna said. “And I am fine with this. So… did Nate say anything… about his girlfriend?”

“No,” I lied smoothly. “Why?”

“Well, we would like Nate and… you… all our children, to understand that we are open to hearing the truth,” Nanna said, subtle as the chili powder in Ma’s pickles.

“Really?” I said, as we walked toward a sugarcane juice stand close to the vegetable store.

“So… do you have a boyfriend?” Nanna asked.

I ignored his question.

The light from the setting sun was still illuminating the skies; it wouldn’t get dark for a while and in the summers it never really got pitch dark. The sky always looked a little blue, even in the dead of the night.

“Amma, want one?” the sugarcane juice vendor asked, holding a glass filled with frothy greenish brown juice.

“No, no,” Nanna said. “No ice. Two glasses and wash them properly.”

As if washing the glasses would make any difference whatsoever to whatever germs and bacteria we would ingest with the juice. I knew I shouldn’t, but it was too tempting, just like the goli soda had been. I could taste the sweetness of the juice; the long-forgotten memories came rushing back to my taste buds and the desire to take just one sip became irresistible.