August 15th, 2018

Death by Mango.

I was in love once. I was like I have never been since. There’s a yearning I cannot explain to go back to those days of being in love. It was bliss and misery at the same time. Its been years and years, and I have never been so full, yet so incomplete; so brave, yet so afraid; so at peace and so at war at the same time. Why I would want to be like that again is beyond me.

Work has been relentless these past few days. It has been, primarily, the reason I have not updated in the last month or so, this and the fact that I have yet to complete my response to some of the comments on the previous post, and it seems wrong to move on to another post before that chapter is closed. Wrong or right, I am writing today because I feel like writing after ages, and because in the back ground I have this lovely music playing that I discovered at another blog, and music is often a great inspiration. Look at the lines it brough out up there.

Mangoes are here, and this singular arrival makes this time of the year the most gratifying period since this same arrival last year. I have loved mangoes ever since I tasted my first mango. I am not sure if mango is designated as the National fruit of Pakistan, but it seems logical that it should be. I do not know of any other country that produces mangoes. I have seen some mangoish fruit that comes from India, Kenya and Australia, but take it from a mango enthusiast, if it is not from Pakistan, chances are it is not a mango. Fact is, it is not a mango if it is not Pakistani. Doubt me? Walk into your nearest fruit shop, and if you can’t smell mangoes right away, walk right out. Stop at the door, if you must be such a skeptic, and ask the guy why he does not retail Pakistani mangoes. ‘Cuz if he did, you could have smelled them. Watch him then as he offers some non-Pakistani, over priced, over-shone and over-packaged variety as a substitute… buy them too, if you are diabetic. If it isn’t our mango, it poses you no risk. It offers no taste too.

Yeah! I am a mango enthusiast, and a fierce one at that. I look forward to this time of the year all year round, and when it does come around, I throw all caution to the wind, and get down to improving on my record from the previous year. For the past few years, with no parental restraints (Even my parents seemed to subscribe to the fallacious notion that there could be such a thing as too many mangoes; with a few thousand kilometers to separate reprimanding-they from mango-crazy-me there is little chance of them finding out just how many mangoes I think constitute too many – infinite!) or financial constraints to stay my hand, I have only been let down by the limitations imposed on me by my size 39 waist. There is an upside to the proceedings though… it was a size 38.5 last year, and 38 the year before… at half an inch a year, I am sure to have enough space in the next 100 years to actually get close to accomodating as many mangoes as I wish I could.

I am told by some that there is such a thing as a bad or rotten mango; I have yet to come across one. If there is indeed a bad mango out there, it would be well-advised to approach my mangoness, and it will be gulped down along with its cronies in no time. After all, whats worse than wasting a mango? If its a bad mango, it will be diluted by all those good mangoes I intend on adding to my system over the next few weeks. Whats the worst that could happen? Death?

Death by Mango?

Just how many people are fortunate enough to have that ending?

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