Conversations with a mango

I stare into my own eyes with an unignorably orangish yellow fibrous pulp... Very moist
Circumferencing my lips and some even in my nose, I don’t feel it or smell it as it already exists in my head, just like when one is engrossed in reading a book or thinking about an important meeting we may fail to hear the clock tick yet if I were to come across a sentence involving a clock my attention would subconsciously become aware of the ticking and hear it very clearly. Which as our ignorant species time to time understands ... The incapacitated perceptory capability of animals like us does not ever make use of all the information ones sense organs can provide. As my thoughts forage the painted brain of a mouse from above my bed reflects at me in a compelling plea, as the cold water runs into my hands I feel the warmth which could be inside of me…. Every breath is already an opportunity I am the product of whats been sowed and watered for many human years , all fertilizers added , most of the pests taken of me and forgotten by, a fully functioning flesh suit with all my senses in place oriented with time. Anyway I should start at the beginning…

Every one of us enjoys a block of chocolate or a chunk of creamy cake some more than the others, at around 9 every Sunday morning ive met one of those some people, shes no taller than the 3 feet sugarcane she sells to every one of the nostalgic people who walk by her one table vegetable stall at the flee market on the same day every week, “one fruit at a time” she says in a very brave Thai accent, as the sugar cane are gone she moves to the mangoes which attract less flies than her perfectly round face most of which is cream cake smudged. The century old argument on multitasking abilities of women can be put in its coffin as you watch her yell out the prices of the mango holding a ripe orange in her left while sorting the gold and silver coins in her right noticeably enjoying a mouth full and more of the yet to be finished fresh cake. With a didgeridoo playing in the background not too far away I sit beside a kid on the rice sack to enjoy my Laotian fish breakfast, there is a very intangible force in this market that keeps me coming here yes the cheap lp’s, the Samoan doughnuts, the Thai lady, percussion artists, antiques, or is it the noise. The music of reality, the multilayered vibrations created by a multitude of vocal interceptions, just like every market at home more so on the meat side. It could even be the pretty girls dressed in colors looking new straight from church, the air a bird and insects dream filled with the odor of food good and bad fruits sold and unsold, people and kids playing, the old wood, books stored in cupboards for years carrying their masters smell, the rubber from cheap footwear made by kids for almost no money in the beautiful suburbs of ancient china. fresh bread dipped in even fresher coffee, the Koreans and their kimchi, curry stuffed in breads, second hand leather untreated for decades, perfumes made from other perfumes spring onions and pomegranate, coconut oil from Fiji, the sea smell of squid and fish that swam freely yesterday 3 miles under the mangere bridge, the hot dogs, the Chinese women of which some believe showering too much when their life is good may bring them bad luck,




My brain re wiring forcing a part of my consciousness to divert its attention to an age old philosophical question, if instead of sitting on the rice sack I was lying on my couch would these sounds still exist independent of me, are sound sensations physical events which take place whether someone is there or not, is sound an organized movement of molecules caused by a vibrating body in some medium, water, air, rock, steel etc or is sound a sensation known only to the mind of the listener, a sensory influence we perceive as the sound being created pre programmed by our innate physical and emotional biology. so is there actually a sound when a tree falls in the forest if there is nobody there to listen to the sound.
“Common la that food is full of oil and fat why don’t you eat a fruit la, its good for your health” I snap out starring clearly at the orange she waves at me in a circular motion as though trying to hypnotize me into buying it but I was enjoying my breakfast just fine it was steamed and grilled fish so there was neither oil nor fat not too much anyway but why am I so conscious of what she said to me, she just wants me to buy a fruit she dosent really care what I eat or now hold on what if, well, does she, as I throw away the paper carton with the soft bones into the garbage bin on her right, I notice the wonderful melons being handled by the woman in the next one table stall, I think it was the thirst that made me start craving for a piece of fruit, now it had to be small and moist enough to enjoy and sweet enough so I dun feel thirsty, I dint quite want to walk to the drink stall 50 m yet, as my mind insignificantly swings from melons to mangos, I wonder if the Hindu saying about rice is a universal quotient or just a pertained ideology about rice, it amused me when my grandmother always said every grain of rice has the name of the person who will eat it, as in not with first middle and last names but a soul signature an intent associated to an identity, karmic connection between the grains of rice to be consumed and the consumer, so may be even the mangos have a similar attribute now why not it may be a common law among the vegetative kingdom, if it is who must be making these rules if its not then why do the Brahmins of ancient India believe in such nonsense, was it so the grains weren’t wasted, to avoid wastage in the already scarce environment ,religious rendition of moral values were easier to implement I guess especially in a country like India as the god sense is more matured than in other parts of the same world, now I just wanted to eat a mango, grown in 84 countries, millions of tones every year from eastern India to Chile, Florida to west Africa, Cambodia to west India, a fruit related to a huge species of poisonous fruits bearing cousins, a sense of patriotism swamps me, mangos grew at their natural best in south Asia especially mastering themselves in eastern India when travelers and plant crafters introduced strands of these sweet fruit into various geographical locations, so the chances are the mangos sold by the petite Thai lady could have been some where down the lane related to my own mother land, may be even from the farm of one of my ancestors who grew rice and mango for as long as time can take us back, convinced that mango was the fruit of the day I walk up to her, may be I will take a few coz I just felt like it give a few to my flat mates who probably have never tasted good mangos as they come from much colder regions, before I could ask her how much they were she hastily chucked 3 of the hugest ones into a light blue plastic bag and handed it to me with a tone that sounded like “15 dolla la, good one for you la” havin been dealing with a lotta people in a sales context my immediate response was why why good ones for me, and she said “ well la, the idea you gave my grandson last time to sell my fruit worked really well I sell almost double and all these stalls lined in a row some looking cleaner and fresher are only selling half their produce”

With a sudden ease I did remember what she was talking about, it was may be 2 years ago when I used to frequent the market with gene and sometimes others, I had met a kid no older than 10 or 12 years who used to stand in his stall yelling out In weird noises to grasp peoples attention to sell his fruits and as I passed by the lane squeezing between people and trolleys of fruit holding genes very soft hands, these noises caught my attention and when I looked back it was this kid howling at the world, gene always seemed to have this innate connection with kids and all things innocent and care deserving, she looks at me and in her signature subtleness fronting her lower lip like a 2 year old baby when they are having a bit of difficulty getting what they want and her eyes closing just enough to wrinkle her eye brows, only if she was a Jew and Hitler had seen that look the world would have atleast 30 million more Jews from the 6 million that were made disappear for being born into this world as a Jew, people would be going to Budapest for the annual world business convention and may be in a business sense would not be the most advantageous situation to us as Indians as the Jews were bloody good at our sport- buying and selling. Quite disgraced with myself for comparing the holocaust to business opportunities still holding her hand walked towards the young boy, and she bought almost every last fruit on his table, pineapple, mandarins, Korean pear, mangoes, even bananas which is her least favorite fruit, the last time she had a choice between a banana and a glass of goat blood which was offered to us at a traditional Korean festival she opted for the blood, she said the bananas were for me, her tone the innocence and purity in it always stripped me of everything that was unhumble, she was as pure as the gesture she was making, and clearly understanding that the kid who is not much of kid really thanks her and I interfered sternly telling him to give her a kiss coz she is doing this for his braveness not because he was a kid, and he was more than happy to give her a peck on her left cheek which was her favorite, they both lit up he had an enchanted smile from cheek to cheek while she just shone. and the day the Thai lady was talking abt happened exactly a week after that moment, after that very minute the boy noticed the accounting book she was carrying in her right hand as we were shuffling the 8 bags full of fruit around on our arms, and he said “may be I go university, I like the business, my uncle tell I be very good sell” and that captured me in a way, reminding me of the streets I grew up in I heard that line everyday, infact I may have even said the same line in worse English, grounding myself I decided selling being my forte I had to find a piece of information that he could comprehend at his age and experience and also which would make him understand the dynamics of selling in that environment and it had to be interesting and cost free to him at the same time, cleaner table, wearing a costume, fruits packed in neat cartons with free stuff attached to them, cute signboards all these could help but the boys voice was poking at an intuition that was far simpler and effective than all these an activity he would make his own and be a part of. When gene heard about how I felt she immediately flashed a happy smile and said “K you better or Ur not my friend”.

Later that day after a game of basket ball lying with sweat trickling down my forhead floating onto my closed eye lids on my drive away, I felt a tickle on my feet being too lazy to even open my eyes I assumed it was gene, yelling “leave me alone” and not hearing anybody laughing I opened my eyes to realize ive been lying there for longer than I thought everybody was already back in the house, no wonder it was so eerily quite I assumed it was just my head, raising my head to see a piece of paper blown by the wind against my feet, picked it up to see what it was, definitely a foreign language I was guessing it was Korean, couldn’t be Chinese as the symbols were less picture oriented, could have been any Asian language really, just being curious I hopped back on my feet went in and showed it to James who was my Korean friend and he recognized it straight away “ it’s a flier you know, for the market, they open new one over there, its quite good, I can get lot of noodles you know, do you want to go” I barely paused to understand what he was saying, may be the word market or his English took me back to the boy, and immediately with no doubt I knew I had the best idea to make him sell more fruits, something which seemed to be very tangible and nostalgic at the same time, “ is this market open now” “yes it is they close at 6 you want to go rite now” “ yes lets go, now” I started the car and waited for him for 20 mins to bloody come out of the house in the mean while I had decided where else I could find multi language news letters and even just old language books or news papers, “ im sorry bro lets go” he said as he sat in the car the market was only 2 minutes away if that, I picked up a whole bunch of old Korean newspapers atleast abt 100 papers “ are you crazy, can you read Korean are you crazy” he said in his usual confused voice, “ lets go we can come back another day for noodles its too crowded” “ no no hang on just leeelaaax I can do that in 2 minutes you know” knowing for sure I cant talk him out of it I agreed, and we went in picked up a few tubs of noodles and checked out and I made him take me to other Asian super markets collecting enough rubbish as he put it, we got back home

I couldn’t wait for Sunday to come, I told gene what my plan was and how I was going to teach the boy, she was really happy and with a loud yet gentle voice she said she loved me for doing this and well basking in the limelight I convinced myself this was a great idea, the week slowly passed, I realized a few things that week, none significant or advisable but it occurred to me that as some great writer once said “life may not be tied down by a bow but it still is a bloody good gift” life was just a dream we were living, hour after hour, sleep after sleep, constantly changing like da shapes of clouds on a grey autumn sky, faces, colors, sorrow and pain, laughs, giggles, Secrets, pies, darkness and the sun rises every time, every single day passes into another like a train passing fields of lilies, torn down train stations, mutiny stricken towns, posters with forgotten faces, animals, grey walls, blue walls, water, land as dry as our finger nails, my spinning thoughts permeate from 33 rpm to 55 at a similar difference in speed while listening to an lp.. police sounds like panthera,