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The Mangoes We Waited For


Bhaskaran Uncle’s son Unni was older than us, but never above us.

He had a slight limp—nothing dramatic, just enough to make strangers look twice and adults speak softly around him. But on the temple ground, that limp disappeared. Or maybe it stayed and Unni simply outran it.

He played everything.

Cricket.

Football.

Badminton, when the adults allowed us near their courts.

In football, we were careful with him. We passed gently, slowed our tackles, held back. Unni hated that. He ran harder, slid deeper, crashed into the dust with a grin that dared us to treat him like anyone else.

Cricket was where he became dangerous.

He batted like he was angry at gravity. Sixes flew often—high, confident arcs that almost always landed in the same place.

His backyard.

The Backyard of No Return

Unni’s backyard was famous for two things:

  1. Lost cricket balls
  1. His grandmother

She was not a woman designed for childhood.

Short, sharp, and permanently annoyed, she guarded her backyard like it was a national monument. Any kid who entered looking for a ball was met with yelling that sounded like curses but might have been prayers.

“POKKO!” - scram

“INI VARARUTH!” - never come here 

Sometimes she hid the balls deliberately. Sometimes she threw them onto the roof. Once, she kept one inside her cupboard for months.

We never knew why.

We wondered sometimes—quietly—what Unni’s relationship with her was like. He never spoke badly of her. He never defended her either. He just shrugged and smiled in a way that suggested he had learned early that some battles were unwinnable.

Mango Season

Then the seasons changed.

Summer arrived like it always did—slowly, generously, without warning. Mangoes appeared everywhere. Raw, sour ones that made your jaw tighten and your eyes water. The kind of fruit children survive on.

We made our own drinks —sip-ups sealed in agarbathi plastic covers sweet and frozen , paired with crushed raw mango and stolen rock salt from Unni’s grand mom’s backyard kitchen. Most days, mangoes were our nutrition. Meals were optional.

The best mangoes, though—the ones meant for mambazha pulissery- sweet and sour delicacy made with curd and sweet full mangoes —grew in Unni’s backyard.

Golden.

Plump.

Perfectly balanced between sweet and sour.

And strictly forbidden.

We watched them ripen like forbidden treasure guarded by Unni’s grand mom.

The Morning She Didn’t Wake Up

One morning, the shouting stopped.

Unni’s grandmother didn’t wake up.

The house filled with people, whispers, rituals. The village adjusted its rhythm the way villages always do—making space for death without fully stopping life.

What surprised us later was this:

She left behind two things.

A large inheritance for Bhaskaran Uncle.

And a huge pile of cricket balls—hidden, forgotten, preserved.

They surfaced slowly, like secrets finally tired of being kept.


Sixteen Days

In our village, mourning was collective.

For sixteen days, people came every evening. Some to pray. Some to sit. Some just to be present. Adults arrived after work, loosened their tiredness with drinks, talked in low voices. Bhaskaran Uncle hosted them all quietly.

For children, it was something else entirely.

Rules dissolved.

No one asked us to come home before sunset.

The temple ground stayed alive late into the night.

Games went on longer. Laughter stretched wider.

Dinner was always together.

And every night, without fail, there was mambazha pulissery. Made from the very mangoes we were never allowed to touch.

Sweet.

Sour.

Comforting.

We ate greedily, silently aware of the irony but too young to feel guilt.


What Stayed With Me

Years later, I still think about that backyard.

About the balls that were taken and returned.

About mangoes that ripened only after permission was no longer needed.

About how childhood resentments dissolve into strange gratitude.

Unni grew up strong. His limp remained, but so did his intensity. The temple ground changed, then disappeared. The backyard lost its magic.

But the lesson stayed.

That sometimes people guard things fiercely—not out of cruelty, but fear.

That abundance arrives late, often after loss.

And that villages, like families, grieve and heal together—through food, noise, and shared evenings.

And somewhere in memory, a cricket ball still arcs into the sky, lands in a backyard, and this time…

No one yells.

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