There was a beautiful home near my grandparents’ house, right at the entrance of Pais Gardens. It was a mansion of sorts with the most gorgeous kukku da mara or mango tree, its branches spilling out over the walls. Summers were always about that tree and the mangoes. We would fashion a bamboo stick to pluck them, both raw and slightly ripe, and savour our treasure sprinkled with chilli powder and salt. That was the triumph of the day.
Whenever I think of those days, it feels like a past life. As a child, my wishes were simple and pure. I would watch the leaves sway in the breeze, hoping one would fall on its own. Daydreaming while the jaali/courtyard baked under the sun and my family rested after long meals of meen da gassi, upkari, and urpel ari da nuppu, I would sit on the steps at the entrance and let my mind wander. Time seemed endless, and every little thing, a mango, a falling leaf, the warmth of the sun, felt like magic.