The Mango Season by Amulya Malladi Page B

pleased with my gift. I had seen a picture of her in which her hair had been tied in a French knot, so I got her ivory combs.
    Lata immediately leaned over to look carefully at the combs and I could hear the calculator hum inside her head. She was probably thinking how the shawl, even though expensive, was probably not as expensive as the combs . . . or was it? My mother was torn between anger and pride. She was upset that I had spent all this money and she was also pleased that I was giving away such expensive-looking gifts. My giving expensive gifts guaranteed that when the situation arose (like my wedding), I would get expensive gifts in return.
    “You are late,” was all my grandmother said to Neelima once the introductions were made and the gift given.
    “I had to stop by at the doctor’s clinic,” Neelima said shyly. “I am ten weeks pregnant,” she announced.
    Sowmya and I hugged her and rambled on about little babies and how wonderful it was. The contrast was painful. Ammamma asked us to spread the mangoes, Ma just glowered, while Lata started talking about how the first trimester was the time when most miscarriages took place. I was appalled. Who were these people? And why were they behaving like women from a B-grade Telugu movie?
    I dropped a basket of mangoes between Neelima and me and sat down cross-legged. “Here.” I handed her a large knife and put a cutting board in front of her as I did in front of me as well.
    “Wait,” my grandmother said. “Don’t mix the mangoes.” She pointed to the ones between Neelima and me. “Those are ours. Sowmya, you take care of them. Let us chop our own mangoes. That way the good and bad mangoes won’t get mixed.”
    There were different piles of mangoes in the hall. The mangoes Ma and I had purchased that morning, the mangoes Lata had been given from the ancestral orchard, the ones that belonged to Ammamma , and those that were Neelima’s, which had been bought under Ammamma ’s supervision the day before. It was easy to know whose mangoes Ammamma didn’t want her mangoes mixed up with.
    “Are you saying my mangoes are bad?” Ma asked instantly, her eyes blazing, a knife held firmly in her hand. Warrior Pickle Woman was ready to defend her mangoes.
    Ammamma leaned down and picked up a mango from “our” basket and sniffed. She dropped it instantly, her nose wrinkled. “Radha, you were never good at picking mangoes. You should have taken Lata with you.”
    “I always pick good mangoes,” Ma said, and yanked a mango out of the basket. “Cut and give me a piece,” she ordered Neelima, who put the mango on the wooden cutting board and hammered the knife through it. The knife cut the mango, stone and all. She cut out a smaller piece with a paring knife and gave it to Ma.
    “Taste,” she instructed my grandmother, who moved her head away.
    “I don’t have to taste; I know that they are not very good by the smell. Priya, you have to use your senses . . . your sense of smell to buy mangoes. I will teach you; if you learn from your mother, you will pick mangoes like these,” Ammamma said, looking at the mangoes Ma had just purchased with distaste.
    “Maybe if you had given me some mangoes instead of giving them all to Lata, I wouldn’t have made this big mistake,” Ma said sarcastically.
    “The harvest was not very good, there were only a few mangoes,” Ammamma protested. “We had to take some and the rest we gave to Lata.”
    “Why give the rest to her? I am your flesh and blood, ” Ma said sourly. “Maybe I should just take Priya home and—”
    “Ma,” I interrupted calmly before my mother could finish threatening my grandmother into submission. “ Ammamma , why don’t you taste the mango and see? I helped Ma pick them out, you know,” I said, putting on my best granddaughter face.
    My being the oldest and most doted on grandchild and the fact that I was there for only another week and a half propelled my grandmother to do as I