Kairi (Raw Mango)

It is the month of May

Our mango tree is heaving

With the rawness of kairi

Making the tree appear

As if she were a new mother

Her bosom heavy with milk

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On my tiny tippy toes 

I reach out to a kairi

Its warm green surface, rubbery against my four year old palm

I clutch onto it with a swift motion

And pluck it

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It is the most precious kairi

The prototype of the paisley print 

Bursting out of my little hand

I hold on to my prized possession

My fingers sticky with its natural sap

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“Papama, kairi cut korya” I tell my grandmother 

She takes a sickle knife 

And slices through the kairi 

Cutting it into small cubes

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A pinch of chilli powder, some salt and a generous splash of lemon juice

This magic potion of sorts is added to the offering

My mouth waters

I cannot wait for my taste buds to be seduced by the kairi

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I gingerly pick a single cube of the spicy coated kairi

And place it inside my mouth 

The flavours forever imprint themselves onto its map

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This to me is belonging 

This to me is home