How do you describe the joy of seeing a pair of mangoes hanging gently from a leafless stem of a branch, gently swayed by the passing breeze on a summer day?  It becomes more difficult to give words to that when you’ve waited for three long years, having planted a sapling on a sunless June day after the earth has accepted the first showers with joy and humility. Happy that the days of parch just a memory.

You have waited for three long years. Winter, autumn, summer and rains come and go. And then on a February you come across the flowers. A month and a half passes and the fruits of earth are shaped into a mango. Last week I picked up a bunch of them and brought them home and spread the labour of my love on the kitchen table.

“Do you mean they’re from our farm,” wife exclaimed with happiness. By noon her mother, brother and her friends knew that Hiraman had been rewarded by the fruits of the season.

The mangoes now reside in glass jars in our kitchen in their new avatar-jam. Harvest of sunshine and sugar.

Coming back to describing the joy with which I began this post let me quote a poet: What does he plant who plants a tree? He plants a friend of sun and sky; He plants the flag of breeze free; The shaft of beauty, towering high….  

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