By Aaradhya Garg
Cousins love kalami -
the newest, grafted one.
The site division of that summer.
Low, identical branches, that
needed only plucking not climbing together.
I let them have my share.
My heart perched on the branches
of the mighty Satpedwa, the magical one
which grew seven different varieties;
the tall Seepiahwa, its seashell shaped fruit
cajoled from a canopy of the child’s imagination;
the huge Cheeniahwa, which sugared its fruit
because at the well dug up next to the tree,
grandfather’s father had kept gud for the unknown travelers.
They are passing away one by one,
being replaced graft by graft.
I haven’t planted a Senurahwa,
who’s colors match the hope of dawn.
Will the heart’s of my children’s children
perch atop branches to find beauty in difference?
A summer without the plurality of desi mangoes.
I don’t want to know the word for it
from the language of their future.