When the frigid breeze cuts into my skinCreeps past countless layers of woolThen I grumble to AmmaWhere are the mangoes, I sayWhen will summer come around.Once the pavement starts to sizzle, I say to AmmaLet the humble mangai make an appearanceAnd the toothless subzi-wala beckon,I’ll be the first in lineI’ll bring them back for you, AmmaWe’ll slice them upDip them in lethal salt and chilliAnd feast, sweating in the verandahJust like you must have, a tiny speckAt Marina Beach.Then when the fat juicy safedas comeI’ll bring back a kilo or twoI’ll have no less than four a day, AmmaOne as shake, one in kootanTwo that drip downMy arm, stain my shirt as IBite into ecstasy.When will the geyser become dormant, AmmaWhen can I peel off these layersAnd dash off in searchOf the newest breed in seasonPiled high, golden and proud, or royal and greenGlinting in the brilliant sun, or lit by LPG lampsAnd if we catch Dad in a good moodHe’ll amble off with his faded cloth bagAnd bring back a cold brickTo have with our post-dinner alphonso.Alas, Amma, when the pavement began to sizzleI was busy sitting in an air-conditioned cageWhen you brought the mangaiAnd waited for me in the verandahI had but half a piece beforeDashing off, careful not to spill chilliOn my spotless blue suit.The kootan cooled under the fanAnd I ate, distractedBy machines and their buzzing and humming.The ecstasy turned sour, craving my attentionIts sweet rotting flesh destined for the garbage bag, as I,Unmoved by the changing days, the falling rain, the waning sunFlitted from one epicurean farrago to the next.Alas, Amma, when did the summer pass me byI can feel the stirringsOf the frigid December breeze.Tell me, AmmaWhere are the mangoes, when will summer come around.