Mango Trees

July 2016.


Here I am, a discontented sojourner.

Several contemplations led me to conclude that no place was as good as my hometown to spend my hard earned holiday.

 I am in Trivandrum, the city which adopted me and nurtured me and still loves me unconditionally. Despite Technopark, Infosys and the threat of an upcoming metro, Thironthoram retains its charm, grace and the accent so unique to it.  The city which seeded my soul, fostered me by beauty and by fear ..a city where I spent 23 birthdays and will I spend more? That I do not know.

Its 2 pm.

It seems the entire neighborhood and not just my family is enjoying a siesta after a heavy lunch. It is a quiet neighborhood with most of the residents of Avittom Road being retired and senior citizens like my own parents, so I can’t be wrong, I mused.  I sit at our Car Porch, checking emails, with Peeku, snuggling at my side occasionally licking my feet. The breeze from the neighbors mango trees makes me drowsy…I realize how relaxed I am. How serene it is.  I dint need a spiritual or meditative retreat after all. All my soul missed was the afternoon breeze at my home.

There is something about this cool noon breeze teasing the paradoxical sun that sends you into a state of semi consciousness.  If the breeze is from a mango tree that has withstood more than three generations, plenty stories are whispered through the breeze.  Pictures of hanging mangoes on overburdened branches taunt me this afternoon, like my dreams hanging from a thin branch, waiting to be blown away by the next strong wind.

July breeze is Aadi Kaathu according to my mom. (the breeze that is exclusive to the month of aadi which has the strength to blow an Ammi- the roller grinding stone ) I don’t know if the Aadi breeze ever managed to blow any Ammi as my mom claims, but many seasons it has blown away plenty of rational and logical thoughts from my mind. Emotions often swaying with the breeze was the hallmark of the nonsensical mind of a girl and more often the teen girl sending her into whirling into whimsical reveries, the nature of which varied with the biological year.

I rarely stepped out of my dreamy imaginary world as a child.  I would pretend I was invisible and it wasn’t hard as mostly I believed I must not be visible to the naked eye. My mother and grandmother would talk for ages and not know that I was in the room and my mother wouldn’t respond to my frantic search for my pet lizard.  Adults seemed blissfully unaware of my existence. I was left alone with my books, my two other girlfriends Leni and Priyanka all locked in room discovering puberty and the horrors of growing breasts which I secretly but painfully tried to submerge it back into my chest with insulation tapes. My dad would grumble that the insulation tapes got stolen by workers while yards of them would be wrapped around my chest, inside a thick petticoat, which mostly resulted in me choking when I spoke. My mother thought I was having slur speech, an effect of evil eye, and to my horror prayed aloud to shave my tresses in Tirupathi if my speech returned. God responded immediately and Insulation tapes never went missing again.

On occasions I decided to step out my dreamy bookish world come to think of it, I used to love to climb mango trees.  They were more appealing as opposed to the long limbed  coconut trees which was the Thengavettukaran’s forte, the intimidating jackfruit trees which was home to ant- nests plenty not to mention the bees and the flies around the scattered jackfruits was revolting. But mango trees, aha they were warm and welcoming and no other living thing so immobile could be friendlier to an adolescent girl.  There was this mango tree in the compound of the house which we lived.  It was not a particularly tall one, it was a sturdy one with shallow branches which made it easier for tall lanky girls to climb.  Once when my grandmother visited me, during our summer holidays, she was aghast to find us three girls climbing the tree.  I was immediately called inside, and warned that I should never climb trees.  My future husband in my grandmothers own words “would suspect me”. I was not allowed any further questions on such irrational wisdom and neither was I provided with any further explanation on what seemed upon me an impromptu death sentence on a sunny playful afternoon. For the life of me, I could not understand then or many seasons later why climbing trees would provoke my future husband’s suspicion on a mysterious matter.

13 years of my life had been spent acknowledging, albeit begrudgingly, that an adolescent girl had little choices and those were limited to whether she wants to sleep with grandma or amma, choice between idli or dosa, hair in single plait or double plait etc, I accepted most things but not without  tantrums at what seemed then unnecessary things, such as wanting to cycle, climb trees and swim. Not particularly athletic and having found my period excuse during PT days, I cared less for the cycle or swim. But separation from the Mango trees hurt and not being allowed to climb them deeply left me despondent as the many things I enjoyed was also arrested.

Several probing later my exasperated mother told me I would lose my virginity if I climbed trees.  This piece of information was mystifying.  Would the mango trees seduce me? Do they grow dicks? Turn into men? Does it happen when I am on the trees or when I climb down?  I already knew what “sex” and “virgin” meant thanks to locked up room time with my girlfriends, but I was only aware of boys on top of girls.

Cut to a 40-year-old me looking smug, because now I know all about sex and how rarely it involves trees. Although climbing trees is one of the many ways that a girl might tear her hymen, hence my grandmothers concern. The hymen is commonly seen as some kind of gatekeeper of virginity – but a very bad gatekeeper who can’t stop anyone entering; it’s more like a transparent withered guy who stands by the gate, and snitches on those going in and out. And even that information is unreliable. I remember asking my friend who had got married earlier than me whether men had evidences of hymen or virginity.  The response partly paved my feminist path, as you can understand.

The breeze is strong, as if conscious of the joy it beholds on me and demanding an entitlement in return. I drift into my semi-conscious state, my memories taking me back to when I was 12 years old, and puberty knocking at the door, my tantrum holding it wide open at every opportunity.  My grandmother, her stories, anxieties, oily long hair, sacred virginity… all forming a part of my childhood. The thought of her love is still so heartwarming, but I am glad she is not around to know that my husband cared less for hymen and had no other suspect other than economical. I still hope someday her words would be profane and my husband/lover would suspect me for it.  That would redeem the time lost on the Mango tress.  The leaves on the mango trees from Sudha auntie's house, quivering in the breeze as though sending me a message from my grandma. A surge of contentment rushing through my veins. I edit my own words - A contend sojourner. Women are like salmon,  in the end they always swim back to the same place.

The breeze is orgasmic, ironically brought me to a topic which I still consider to be an evolutionary mystery. Hymen – the focus of the oppression of women’s sexuality for many generations and probably still remains an object of oppression in many parts of the world placing restraining order on adolescent girls.