The Mango Season - By Amulya Malladi Page 0,39

countries. I don’t care where they’re from. If they’re good people . . .” I began, once again a futile gesture.

“White people are never good,” Ammamma announced emphatically. “Look what the British did to us.”

I rolled my eyes. It was ridiculous the way my family thought and felt about the West. Ma would always show off about her daughter in the United States, but she didn’t quite like the idea of her daughter even having friends who weren’t Indian. This did not bode well for my revelation regarding Nick this evening.

I was relieved of pursuing the discussion when a car honked and Ma asked me to go open the gate.

My father was finally here—it was the best diversion I had had all day.

TO: PRIYA RAO

FROM: NICHOLAS COLLINS

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: RE: GOOD TRIP?

SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE HAVING A REGULAR GREAT TIME! I’M GLAD YOU DON’T FEEL GUILTY ABOUT ME—I’D HATE IT IF YOU DID. SO TO ANSWER YOUR QUESTION, NO, YOU SHOULDN’T FEEL GUILTY FOR BEING IN A HEALTHY RELATIONSHIP. YOU CAN’T PLAN RELATIONSHIPS, IF YOU PLAN THEM THEY ARE CALLED ARRANGED MARRIAGES AND HONESTLY, I THINK THAT’S A TAD COLD-BLOODED.

YOU’VE MADE YOUR OWN LIFE HERE IN SAN FRANCISCO, WITH ME, AND YOU DON’T OWE ANYONE ANYTHING. KEEP THAT IN MIND. NO MATTER HOW YOUR CULTURE TELLS YOU THAT YOU OWE YOUR PARENTS, YOU HAVE TO REMEMBER THAT CHILDREN NEVER OWE THEIR PARENTS. YOU DON’T OWE YOUR PARENTS ANYTHING BUT YOU’LL OWE YOUR (OUR!) CHILDREN COMPLETE LOVE AND LOYALTY BUT THEY WON’T OWE YOU ANYTHING—AND SO THE CYCLE SHALL CONTINUE.

I’M TEMPTED TO FLY DOWN AND CARRY YOU AWAY—WARRIOR STYLE. I KNOW YOU CAN TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF, BUT I KNOW YOU’RE GOING TO GET HURT AND I FEEL IMPOTENT SITTING HERE IN OUR HOME WAITING FOR YOU TO BE STUNG BY YOUR FAMILY. JUST TRY AND STAY CALM.

CALL ME IF YOU CAN, IT’LL MAKE US BOTH FEEL BETTER. NICK.

Part Three

In a Pickle

Mango Pappu (lentils)

4 cups yellow gram pappu

8 cups water

2 raw sour mangoes

5–6 curry leaves

2 teaspoons chili powder

salt to taste

2 tablespoons peanut oil

1 teaspoon black mustard seeds

3 dried red chiles

1 teaspoon red gram pappu

5 curry leaves

¼ cup chopped coriander

Soak four cups of yellow gram pappu in eight cups of water for half an hour. Chop the raw mango in small pieces. Add mango, yellow gram pappu with the water, curry leaves, chili powder, and salt in the pressure cooker and cook until two whistles. In a small frying pan, heat oil until sizzling. Add mustard seeds, red chile, red gram pappu, and curry leaves into the oil and fry for thirty to forty seconds (be careful to not burn the seeds or the leaves). Add the oil and its contents into the mango lentil mixture in the pressure cooker immediately and mix. Garnish with chopped coriander. Serve hot with rice.

Nanna’s Friend’s, Friend’s Son

Nanna enveloped me in a bear hug as soon as he stepped out of the car. I knew he didn’t like to visit Ammamma and Thatha but came along because the alternative was listening to my mother complain about it for days, maybe weeks.

“That bad?” He grinned when he saw my drawn face and I shook my head.

“Worse.”

“What is going on?” he asked when he sat down on the large swing on the veranda to remove his black leather shoes.

Sowmya stepped outside and smiled at him. “Coffee?”

My father nodded thankfully and she went back inside.

Nanna was a tall, lean man and his skin was dark. That was where I inherited the “wheatish complexion” that Ma complained about. He wore a small gray moustache. As his hair was growing white, he looked dignified and handsome. Ma tried to coax him into dyeing his hair as she did, but he refused, saying he had no issues with his age. I think he liked being in his fifties and looked forward to being sixty.

“No one has killed anyone yet?” he asked, rocking the wooden swing slowly with his bare feet.

I was sitting on a chair across from him and raised my eyebrows mischievously. “The night is still young. Thatha is very angry with me.”

“Thatha is always angry with someone,” he said negligently. “What happened?”

My father and grandfather did not get along. Even though Ma and Nanna had had an arranged marriage, Thatha never did quite like the idea of his favorite daughter being married to a man, any man. There was the age-old “he stole my daughter” thorn in the side of their relationship, which could never be removed.

“We had