Mangoes

Mangoes…

As I was eating the juicy mangoes that my husband bought from Costco, a memory just popped into my mind.

An interesting incident happened one year when I hired a taxi. Taxi drivers in India are a fascinating group of people with tidbits of captivating information and anecdotes. They see so much on their trips, taking various people to various places. Sometimes, conversations with them can be very interesting, if they are willing to share.

There was one driver, who I hired once in my hometown. Murali was a young-looking man, very shy and soft-spoken.  He was stout, clean-shaven with curly black hair, slicked back with coconut oil. His shirt was well pressed, and he was wearing a nice white dhoti and rubber chappals.

As we passed a certain area, I told Murali that this is where my family used to live many years ago. Murali said his house was close by too. In his shy soft voice, he asked me exactly where my home was. I told him the location. He asked me if it was the house with the “Padipura” (a gate with a roof on top common in Kerala a quarter-century ago). I said yes.

Murali became awfully quiet after my answer, yet I continued the conversation about my younger days living in that house. I recounted walking to school on the other side of town, how beautiful the paddy fields were, and how the town has grown and all the paddy fields have disappeared.

Soon the taxi reached our destination.  As I paid Murali, his eyes swelling with tears he commented: “Your father quenched our hunger when I used to go to school. I owe so much to him. So glad that I could meet his daughter. Please do not pay me”. I was completely shocked.

I have never seen my father actually feed anyone personally, so I wondered what he meant by that statement.  I asked him.

He narrated his story. He came from a very poor family with six siblings. His father was a day laborer, who spent all his money on alcohol. His mother did menial jobs in houses and would struggle to feed her children. The children would go to bed with their stomachs hungry most of the days. However, Murali would look forward to going to the government school near our house during the day, not to study but with just one thought in mind.  He knew there would be mangoes waiting for him on the way, and he could eat to his heart’s content! Mangoes?

“Yes, mangoes!”,  Murali said. He continued his story. “We were a bunch of children, my siblings, and friends. We were all poor and hungry and we used to take the path that goes parallel to the paddy fields and your parents’ house was on the side. In the summer months, there would be a large number of mangoes on the steps. We used to sit there, eat them, and then go to school. The only meals we had during the day ever so often were the mangoes that we all shared and the free meal at school in the afternoon. Once the school closed, mangoes were our only meal for the day sometimes.”

Memories started rolling in. I suddenly remembered my father’s habit. My family had a humongous mango tree in our front yard that used to produce a large number of mangoes. Kids used to try to climb the fence and come inside and throw stones at the mangoes. My father who always had a soft side for children decided that the only way to stop them from coming in was to let them have the mangoes.  He came up with a plan. 

My father was an early riser. He diligently went out every day at dawn during the whole mango season and picked up all the mangoes that fell to the ground (mangoes when they ripen are very sweet and fall automatically). He left his mango gatherings outside the gate in newspaper covers for the kids to eat.

 I am sure he had no idea that he was quenching the hunger of many. Or did he?