When Mangoes Were Eternal

The scent arrives before the memory does—
ripe, golden, sun-soaked,
a sweetness that clings to the air
like laughter trapped in jars.

At once, I am not here,
not grown, not tired—
I am barefoot again,
running through afternoons
thick with heat and promise,
where the trees bowed low
as though offering kingdoms
to sticky-handed monarchs.

Mangoes split open like suns,
their juice running rivers
down our wrists,
staining our clothes in amber maps
that no detergent could erase.
We wore the evidence of joy,
bright and unashamed,
like medals for victories
we didn’t yet know we’d lose.

Fingers pried into the flesh,
teeth tore at fibers,
and each bite was a hymn—
a chant to summers that promised
they’d never leave,
to innocence that swore
it was indestructible.

Even the pits felt holy,
licked clean, planted in soil
with the arrogance of children
who believed every seed
was a future,
and every future
would wait for us.

But summers do end.
And so does childhood.
Now the scent of mangoes
is not just fruit—
it is the ghost of afternoons
when time was lazy,
when joy was simple,
when we believed
forever could be held in our hands
and eaten,
dripping down our arms.

Still, each summer,
when the air grows heavy with sweetness,
I peel the fruit slowly,
as though undressing a memory,
and take the first bite
with closed eyes.

And for that moment—
brief, sticky, golden—
the season has not ended,
and the child in me
still believes
it never will.

- Khushi Kaul