My mango tree, I miss you

Every summer I miss the mango tree in school. It is ridiculous when I say “every year” as if I am an 80 year old! But undeniably a couple of years have passed since I have been under the inviting shade of that mango tree.

I flinch at stepping out into the sun now. I array myself with the sunscreen with a specific SPF count, my glares, an umbrella or may be a cap. However at school I could not wait to step out into the sun, away from the cool confines of that classroom. It was not the proverbial soaking up the sun but more of a kind of independence we enjoyed. Away from the controlling eyes of parents who would rather have us in a library or guzzling down glucose water in those summer months.

I along with all my friends were of a contrary opinion. We played our favorite games, ran about the arid playground till our shirts stuck to our very skins wet with perspiration. Neither did we bother to run for the deodorant nor did we ever grow tired.

Only after a bout of intense games we would rush to the washroom and splash water on our faces and necks. It would reasonably leave the floors flooded which would sufficiently tick off the cleaning ladies. They would even shout at us, but how long can you reprimand absolute cherub faces? We were always good at putting up the act.

But the pinnacle of our summer games was not in the sun. They were in the cool shade of a tree. Our school playground was a square field. The sides of the field were under careful landscape gardening having several coconut trees and small bushes and shrubs. We would play hide and seek behind these! At one end of the square was a small patch of rectangular protrusion which served as our high jump landing patch. Diagonally opposite from here stood our benign mango tree.

We would rush to its shade when panting our lungs out. We would stand on the sitting porch built around it when addressing a large crowd (read more than 5 people). This is where friends would sit and discuss trouble. This is where rebellion against almost anything, ranging from parents to government, and boyfriends to traffic were plotted.

Also we would have raging competitions of “who can fell the mango?” by hitting pebbles and such. And when that awesome juicy mango would dash on the concrete we would swoop on it like cunning eagles. Safely this was a more delicious treat compared to the choicest ones served at home.

This is where I fought and made up. This is where I would stand holding ears when punished and have the most engaging adda sessions with the other felons. This is where I made friends. I truly miss my mango tree every summer.