Who knew that the dusky sky with a pallette spreading from crimson to peach could fill you with a longing for heart only knows what.

And the rusty yet fresh fragrance of imaginary oranges allegedly straight from the orchards at Nagpur tickles my tongue with another yearning in the middle of June. It’s not the season yet. And it doesn’t quite taste the same if I am not reminded by my mother to check my appetite for the tang of an almost sweet piece on a chilly winter morning lest I catch a cold.

Doesn’t quite taste the same unless the markets are full of tangerines emptied in heaps out of carrier vehicles. Spread in front of a man who waits patiently for his customers, lamenting the cropping up of  stores selling fruits all the year round in attractive packaging too.
So, as I watch the sky change it’s colour slowly, my longing sheepishly turns into a forgone hypothesis. 

It’s rather a habit of this heart to want a juicy mango in December too.


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