ROSEAPPLE

If you got a childhood that boasts about mangoes, this could be a tale that you’d have probably missed. Keep aside the countless jackfruit trees that marked its territory at every corner of the compound; these shied away from the rest in the quiet corner near the well.

But, promptly reminding us it existed, thrice a year. Never did I know then that the memories from my childhood would be tinged pink.

It was the friendliest I’d say,

to the little explorers we were once. Thin and not so tall, either we jiggled or, hugged them tight to jiggle it with all our might. The pink shower landed right on the cotton sari of our grandmothers, spread on the ground or held in the corners, subject to the number of mouths that would share this happiness in pink. Instant pickle dipped in chili and salt, cut and cleaned for a juice with a dash of pepper, and other fireless experiments for newly discovered tastes,

to follow us through the summer. Never did I know then that it would be

a memory of the love we once shared; wild, subtle, sour, and sweet; all wrapped in a big green leaf.