Amulya Malladi - The Mango Season

“It could,” Nate said. “There are no guarantees.”

“I know. So, are you planning to marry this girl without a mother?” I asked, not wanting to dwell on my impending marriage and divorce as Thatha would like to have it.

Nate laughed. “Before I take her to meet Ma, I really need to get her into a decent salwar kameez.”

Tara was definitely an independent woman of the twenty-first century. She zipped home on a white Kinetic Honda, waving, even as I gasped at her speed and lack of a helmet.

“She will be fine,” Nate said when I voiced my concern, feeling like my mother. “She is always careful and… won’t wear a helmet, messes up her hair, she says.”

Nate and I drove to Tankbund instead of Thatha’s house and sat down on one of the benches, right next to the statue of Krishnadeva Raya, the great king of the Deccan.

Krishnadeva Raya was part of my childhood; part of my knowledge of Indian history and mythology, of Thatha telling me rich, vivid stories of the king and his wise court jester, Tenali Raman. They were fables, part of folklore that had traveled generations to be revealed to me and hopefully to my children through me.

Thatha would sit me on his lap out on the veranda swing. He would fold one leg, which I would sit on, and keep the other leg on the floor to keep the swing in motion. He would then tell me a story.

My favorite was the story where corrupt Brahmins try to swindle the king and both the king and the Brahmins are taught a lesson by Tenali Raman.

I would make Thatha tell me the story again and again of how, when the king’s mother dies without her last wish of eating a ripe mango fulfilled, Krishnadeva Raya is filled with guilt and fear that his mother’s atma is wandering around the earth because of an unfulfilled desire. The court priest, a horrible Brahmin, decides to take advantage of the grief-stricken king and tells him, “Since the Queen Mother died without eating a mango, her soul is lost, crying for closure.” Thatha would say this in a sad quiet voice, imitating the Brahmin.

The king would then ask in Thatha’s humble voice, “Mangoes were out of season, there was nothing I could do. What should I do, O great Pandit, to make this right?”

“You have to do a puja, a big puja,” the Brahmin says. “And to ensure that your mother’s soul rests in peace, you must give a golden mango to fifty noble Brahmins.”

The king thinks it is a wonderful idea and decides to do accordingly, only he thinks fifty to be a small number and invites every Brahmin in his kingdom.

“Every Brahmin got a golden mango?” I would ask Thatha the same question each time. “How many gold mangoes would that be, Thatha?”

“Hundreds,” Thatha would say and then would come to the part I loved the most.

Tenali Rama, seeing his Lord and Master being swindled, decides to teach the Brahmins a lesson. After the king’s puja, Raman shows up at the temple and asks the Brahmins to come home with him as his mother had also recently died of an unfulfilled wish. Expecting more goodies the Brahmins follow Raman to his house.

When they get there they find several branding irons resting in hot fire. “What is that for, Raman?” the court priest asks and Raman folds his hands and raises them over his head (Thatha would do the same with one hand while the other would hold me), “My mother died of rheumatism and her last wish had been to be branded at her knees to ease the pain. But I am no king, I can’t afford gold rods, so these will have to do.”

I would cover my mouth with shock. “Did Raman brand the Brahmins, Thatha?”

“No.” Thatha would laugh. “They all ran away, leaving their golden mangoes behind. Seeing them run, the king realizes that he was being conned and thanks Raman for showing him the truth.”

“Are all Brahmins cheats?” I asked once, and Thatha had shaken his head violently. “No, Priya Amma, this is just a story. Brahmins are honest and good people. Tenali Raman was also a Brahmin… and he is good, isn’t he?”

There were more stories, some about Raman, Jataka tales about Bodhisattva, stories about Jain and Buddha, about Lord Indra, The Mahabharata, The Ramayana… everything. Thatha had been my source of Indian history and mythology. He had been a great storyteller, just like his brother Kathalu-Thatha had been. But after I grew too old to sit on his lap, storytelling was replaced with discussions and now, finally, we had reached an impasse.

“I know I eventually have to go to Thatha’s house and face the music, I just don’t want to,” I said to Nate.

“Then come home with me,” he suggested. “Call and let them know you are at home. A good night’s sleep will put everything in perspective for everyone.”

“I don’t know where Nanna went and…” I shrugged.

Nate nodded and put his arm around me. He pulled my head against his shoulder and kissed me on my forehead.

“Why is it that you are so close to Thatha and I am not?” Nate asked.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly, and turned to look at him. Objectively speaking he was quite a handsome young man and a wonderfully sensitive one as well. He got that from Nanna.

“Lata thinks you’re aloof.”

“Lata is a ditz,” Nate said.

“She’s not that much of a ditz,” I said, remembering the conversation I’d had with Lata and Sowmya just that evening. “She’s actually quite a woman.”

“She is pregnant again,” Nate said in disgust. “Ma told us and… it’s just such a farce. The old man wants clean blood, and what the fuck does that mean, anyway?”

Unlike several boys his age, Nate’s vocabulary was not littered with obscenities, so the fact that he was using one clearly told me about his strong feelings regarding the matter.

“They’ll never give you their permission, if that’s what you are looking for,” he said, moving on to the topic I didn’t want to discuss. “And why does it matter, Priya?”

“I don’t know,” I told him honestly. “I need them in my life. I need you in my life. You’re family.”

“Need is a very strong word,” Nate reminded me.

“I know,” I said. “Oh, how I know.”

We sat in silence then and watched the cars pass by and for the first time since I had been back, I truly savored India. I had sat right here, on one of these benches seven years ago, watching cars pass by and the lights in Begumpet across Tankbund wink at me. I had sat here and wondered about my new life that awaited me in the United States, the land of opportunities. I couldn’t wait to leave, to get on that plane and fly away from my parents’ home and all the problems that came with it.

“Why don’t you want to leave India, Nate?” I asked since I had been so eager to find the new world.

“I like it here,” Nate said. “Why would I leave? Why did you leave?”

I wiped my sweaty hands on my salwar as I contemplated his question. “I left because everyone was leaving. All my classmates had written their GRE, some had married men in the U.S. and others were looking for a groom there. But I think the strongest reason was escape. I wanted to get away from here, from Ma and Nanna and Thatha and the whole family.”

“But you still want their approval?”

“Yes,” I said. “Ironic, isn’t it? I spent so much time trying to get away and now I’m scared that I won’t be allowed back in. They’ve always been my safety net. I have always been daughter, granddaughter, sister, niece just as I have been woman and fiancée. It is who I am. I can’t divorce the family any more than I can myself. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I think so,” Nate said. “I know it looks like I don’t care about them, that I’m aloof. The ditz is right. I am aloof. I don’t… You were always closer to them, Priya. I never thought I could compete. I never thought that Thatha would get close to me the way he was to you. Even with Nanna, I don’t have that closeness you do. I envy you… a lot.”