Fruit of Afonso’s Cultivar


Double-looped pony tailed, she rests
Under the mini grove of a banyan tree

Tiny tired shoulders slouch
Under the weight of book-laden khaki satchel.

Her hands balance a plate,
Made of dried leaves and twigs

On it: saffron-yellow fleshed slivers.
“Transported fresh from Ratnagiri”, said the fruit-seller.


Bites into sweet slices of sunlight,
Send shock waves of ecstasy –

Starting on the tongue, and coursing through her veins
At the speed of thought.

Salt mingles with sugary juice
With every lick of sweaty fingers.

She clicks her tongue- “tsk”
Thinking of morning lesson in class about Eve.

Thrown out of Eden for an apple – “tsk”,
If exiled for mango, now that she can believe.

In distant future, in a distant land,
In a cool cafe, sipping a frappe,


She will recall those fleeting moments.
And her tongue will tingle in holy reverie

Of those succulent slices of manna.
But now, girding her resolve, she walks

In a daze, in a haze skipping
Simmering mirage of water puddles.

Having bought and savored the smooth and
Buttery fruit of Afonso’s cultivar,

Means no bus fare left
for ride home.