Reflection
Summer in Georgia, USA, presents squirrels similar to the ones I watched in Bongaon, Bangladesh. It’s 2025 in Georgia, and the memories of Bongaon come from the late 60s.
I am pretty positive the same squirrels are not here, or if they are, it’s a reincarnation. On sultry summer days, I often sat on the porch of our village home in Bongaon, watching the mango trees across the yard. There were two around thirty feet apart, and they had different kinds of mangoes. The middle of the summer had ripe fruits falling when the wind brought them down, and as I sat, I prayed for a strong gust of wind to bring one down. The taste of a fresh, windblown mango could not be described in words.
There would come a soft thud and the instinctive knowledge that a mango was waiting for me on the ground under one of the trees. I shot out of my wooden bench and would be under the tree faster than lightning, looking for the mango. The first tip was to see if it was on the ground’s surface; if not, the dry leaves and twigs hid it. I would try to recollect the sound, figure out an approximate place, and then dig among the leaves with my bare feet. Once my toes hit it, with ecstasy, I fished it out and, on the skirt of my dress, wiped the sticking dust. I wouldn’t think of going inside the house and washing it; windblown mangoes tasted best when eaten right under the tree…
