my papa’s mango tree

Naina Mishra

long ago,

in a distant village

there was an aam tree

in the middle of the house courtyard—

quietly beckoned,

with branches peeking into windows

such was my papa’s mango tree.

in the ripe, burning days,

the tree bent low,

heavy with mangoes—

such was my papa’s mango tree.

the tree laughed at the tangles of limbs—

my papa and his cousins,

racing up her trunk to be the first

such was my papa’s mango tree.

the sweetness lingers— 

slow and sudden,

like the rush of the monsoon rains

such was my papa’s mango tree.

that summer,

my papa’s nani churned, stirred, and spiced,

mango lassi, mango kulfi, mango pickle—

until she could take no more.

such was my papa’s mango tree.