A TASTE OF INDIA

—Raakhee Suryaprakash
As the traffic crawled, Dr. Rohini Kumar tapped her well-manicured nails on the
steering wheel of her car. In the other seat, her daughter Nisha was humming awa
y to herself as she watched the rain fall on her window. Rohini’s eyes returned
to the rear-view mirror to see the box of mangoes she had placed on the backseat
. She was late picking up Nisha from the child-minder’s, but it was worth it fo
r this taste of summer … she couldn’t wait to introduce her child to her favouri
te fruit which was an abiding part of Rohini’s childhood memories. She turned o
n the radio for a traffic update and caught the tail-end of the news.
“… activists are campaigning in Trafalgar Square for the promotion of organic fa
rming and use of organic produce. Their banners ask people to reduce the carbon
footprint of their groceries. Their advice to citizens is to purchase fruits and
vegetables from outlets that stock produce from local organic farms. They want
a ban on pesticides, insecticides and artificial ripening agents. And now for th
e traffic update.”
After an hour-long, traffic-ridden commute in the unrelenting drizzle, Rohini pu
lled into the driveway of her suburban home. The grey skies belied the fact that
it was May. Another typical British day! Who’d have thought she’d one day miss
the punishing heat of the bright Indian sun that ripened these mangoes from home
.
Taking her precious burden into the kitchen as Nisha rushed through her evening
shower, Rohini impatiently opened the box. The divine smell of mouth-wateringly
ripe mangoes hit her, taking her back in time. As she picked up the mangoes from
the bed of crackling straws, nostalgic images rushed through her mind. She reme
mbered playing truant and running barefoot with giggling friends in the sun and
entering the mango orchard of her village on the sly. Memories of dropping ripe,
golden mangoes with a sling shot evoked once more the innocent joys of her chil
dhood in rural India.
As Rohini carefully washed, peeled and diced the mangoes before placing them in
the refrigerator, she grinned at the memory of the impatient child she once was
who pounced on the dusty and warm king of fruits even as it succumbed to her cra
ck shot and landed on the dirt below the branches. There was nothing better than
that triumphant first bite of the juicy mango, except perhaps savouring the sti
cky juice off your fingers after devouring the succulent fruit—a perfect end to
a sweaty adventure avoiding family, the teacher, and the orchard watchman. A swe
et slice of heaven … a taste of India. Even as she gave into temptation and remo
ved the dish from the fridge Nisha walked into the kitchen and perched on the st
ool.
“So ma, can I taste your favourite fruit now?”
Picking out a tiny fork from the drawer close to her, Rohini placed the dish and
the fork in front of Nisha and awaited her verdict as the precocious toddler mu
nched on the fruit cubes. After a couple of bites, Nisha pushed away the dish.
“I don’t know what the fuss is about. I don’t like it. It tastes like medicine.”
When Rohini put a piece of the rejected offering in her mouth, instead of the we
ll-remembered taste of heaven, all she felt was the metallic aftertaste of the e
thylene used to ripen the fruit.