Sweet Mangoes

This story is about the tradition of Sweet Mangoes that takes place every year in an isolated village of India

Sweet Mangoes

It was the morning that she had been waiting for since six months and seven days - the results day. Her village, Arudapur, was like no other village in India -it was isolated, with about a thousand something people who seemed to be living in their little fantasy. They had created their rules of what is right and what is wrong. Hardly anyone understood the idea of a world, a bigger world that existed outside of their village and even the ones who did know, never explored it. They didn’t need to. Their world was enough " it had big and happy families, sufficient food for everyone, and deeply-rooted traditions. One of their traditions was called Sweet Mangoes, the name derived from Hindu texts, where a ripened mango that falls from the tree is believed to turn into a beautiful princess. Similarly, every year, a group of ten best-looking women received the highest privileges of being in the possession of the best of everything: saris, jewellery, houses, servants, and men. In return, they became the unofficial wives of some of the richest men in the village for a year. The tradition dated long back to when the village was being formed and there were more women than men, giving men the liberty of sleeping with more than one woman. If this hadn’t been done, Arudapur might have never existed. And hence, the practice had been moulded over the years into a tradition that they followed as if it were their religion.

As Shruti mentally prepared herself for the results, she wore her black silk sari that she considered to be lucky ever since she became one of the Sweet Mangoes, someone that she had always wanted to be, and she knew she had the potential. Brought up in a poor background, the only expensive item she’d ever had was a tiny horse made out of clay, painted in bright red and yellow, which she had stolen from one of the houses that she cleaned. It was then when she had witnessed the entry of the Sweetest Mango in her new house. Shruti, only seven years old, wanted to be that woman, wearing her red silk sari and her necklace that was made out of gold. The day after, she had told her parents about her wish to be a part of Sweet Mangoes, and they couldn’t have been happier. Her parents, who also cleaned people’s houses for a living, saw this as an opportunity to live the lavish life that they had only dreamt of. Shruti was fourteen when she’d first joined it, and had worn that black sari on the day of the competition. She had gone to the village’s main office with some thirty other young girls who had combed their hair in two plaits, put on their mother’s lipsticks, worn their best saris and some had pieces of scarfs tucked into the blouses of their flat chests. Shruti was prettier than them, she was tall, fair-skinned, and did not have to fill her breasts with a scarf. Only two girls were selected that year, Shruti and some other girl, and they both had been sterilized as a part of their initiation ceremony and their parents had moved to bigger houses that they would have for the rest of their lives. Soon afterwards, the other girl had been dismissed because she couldn’t keep her man satisfied. No longer was she part of the village and lived in a nearby temple with ex-Sweet Mangoes, devoting the rest of their lives to achieve moksha.

While there were prettier and younger girls who joined every year, Shruti had been on top of the list six times in a row. On the blackboard of their village’s main office, except for the name on the top, the rest of the names would have a smudged whiteness surrounding them. Shruti, written in white, would have a thick black background, standing out like a diamond in coal. Though Shruti never had children and never planned to in the future, she had Sweet Mangoes. And so, she would flaunt that sari on results day. It had tiny, round mirrors sewn around the borders and made a long rectangular block of shiny metallic circles that would twinkle in sunlight. The pallu of her sari would be wrapped around her. It had the same mirrors that rose from the bottom of it to the top, resembling the pattern of fire. Whenever she would walk outside, she would hold her pallu in one hand and display her fire-kissed back. It was an old sari that belonged to one of her memsahibs, the mirrors had become weak and would fall off every now and then, although she would buy new ones from the shop and fix them after every results day.

She met up with her best friend, Aarti, who was one of the Sweet Mangoes, to go to the Arudapur’s main office. There was a time, around a decade ago, when Aarti used to be the Sweetest Mango and she had been until Shruti took over her spot. There had been jealousy and hatred among the two of them and they couldn’t bear the sight of one another. However things changed when they spoke outside the shop that sold bangles and the coldness had soon vanished when they realized how similar they were to each other. Soon, they had made it a routine to meet up for brunch every weekend and sit on the wooden log by the Banyan tree. They had become close friends, still there were times when Aarti’s struggle of staying in the list and Shruti’s success of topping the list would clash and lead to days when they wouldn’t talk to each other.

As they both walked past the golden wheat fields, narrow lanes and confined mud houses that had cakes of cow dung pasted to their walls for drying, they noticed the eyes of the villagers on them. Three little girls, who were chopping forage for the cows, left what they were doing and rushed to Shruti and Aarti. The little girls didn’t talk to them or touch them; they simply gazed at them in astonishment, hoping to become them one day. ‘Why are you even coming? I know, you’re on top of the list again.’ Aarti said.

This was of no surprise. Of course, she was on top of the list. She had always been and even had her lucky outfit on.

Several women accumulated around the blackboard by the main office, the young ones who had competed this year to join the group stood right at the front in their worn-out floral saris. Out of them, only one had made it to the list.

And she had replaced Shruti as the Sweetest Mango.

The name above Shruti’s was of a seventeen-year-old, daughter of that bald man who ran the village’s office. She had a weird face, her mouth was too broad, her hair was too short, and her complexion wasn’t fair enough.

‘She wouldn’t last long.’ Aarti said as they walked back. She had managed to be at the bottom of the list and had a grin on her face that she tried to hide.

Shruti took a cigarette out of her bag and lit it.

‘It is only this time. Perhaps her father helped her get in.’ Aarti said.

‘Cigarette?’ Shruti offered one to Aarti.

‘No, I cannot look any older. You still have years to go.’ Aarti clutched to the skin of her wrist that seemed similar to Shruti’s, but coarse and uneven.

‘You barely made it to the list.’ Shruti said.

‘At least I am safe for this year.’ Aarti replied.

‘And what about next year?’ Shruti said.

Aarti shrugged.

Shruti walked back home. Once she was inside her room, she locked the door and smashed her clay horse against the wall. It crashed with a clanking sound and broke into little pieces, its yellow legs were on one corner and its red head on the other. She crawled into her bed and cried her heart out. She wished she could weep silently, with pearl-shaped tears rolling down her cheeks, so she wouldn’t be embarrassed to cry in front of people, except hers was noisy, with bloodshot eyes and watery snot oozing from her nostrils. Never had she felt defeated, she didn’t know how to deal with it. Maybe it was the weight that she had put on. Maybe it was the random dark patches on her skin. Or maybe it was her relation with Rajesh, her sixth man. Rajesh’s wife and children lived in the haveli and Shruti lived in the guesthouse that was attached to it. For the past couple of months, his work had started to fall apart. He was rumoured to have been mixing other metals in his gold jewellery and was no longer the richest man, otherwise he would have kept Shruti with him. His failing career had exacerbated his aggressive behaviour towards her, the insults would pour out of his mouth like verbal diarrhoea.

Every other night, he would visit her in his drunken state, bring her a piece of jewellery that was usually taken from his wife’s cupboard, and order her to please him. When not satisfied, he would punish her " make her stand for the whole night, not feed her, and the worst, hit her with his belt, but he never hit her face or any part of her body that would be immediately visible. It was usually the legs that he would go for, she would fall down instantly, beg for him to stop and crawl away from him. The more she bawled, the more he enjoyed it. When she would be about to blackout, he would put her on the bed and kiss her on the wounds and wrap his arms around her neck. She wouldn’t leave the house for a few days and wait for the injuries to settle.

There were times when she felt as if her limbs didn’t belong to her. Every step that she took, felt more painful than the last one. On each leg there were purple welts that would only deepen over the coming week. At least she didn’t have any broken bones; at least he didn’t go for the face. One time, the pain was unbearable and she’d thought going to the main office, although could hardly walk. By the time she had recovered, the event had had become a thing of the past and it felt as if the injuries had happened to some other person, not her. Shruti had never mentioned the abuse to anyone, yet she had thought of it every single night. The group was all she had, losing it would mean losing who she was. She couldn’t risk it. Sweet Mangoes didn’t get to choose whom they wanted to stay with " it was done according to the list. The richest man got the Sweetest Mango; the second richest got the second sweetest and the tenth richest got the tenth sweetest. Every year, prior to the results day, the main office carried out a discrete survey that would decide who would be put where on the list. Women were cautious of their image among the villagers, no one exactly knew what the criteria entailed, apart from three categories: the man’s satisfaction, the villager’s opinions, and mangoes’ desirability by the rich men. Shruti had worked hard for where she had been for the last six years, not once had she disappointed her men or done something that would affect her image as the elegant woman they saw her to be.

Another year had ended and it was time to close this chapter and open a new one. She picked up her already packed things to leave. Though Shruti hadn’t been on top of the list, she did have a different, and possibly, a better man this time.

‘I’ll miss you.’ Rajesh hugged Shruti from the back. She could feel his big belly thrusting against her. The forty something man had skinny legs and arms, but the area around his stomach had been bloated from all the alcohol that he drank.

‘You know, you can still come visit me anytime you want to.’ He handed her a gold necklace with green stones, the one that his wife had worn to Diwali.

Shruti placed it on the table.

‘Will you visit me?’ He asked, picked up the necklace and kept it in her bag.

Shruti walked out.

‘You’re not going to say goodbye?’ He said.

‘Goodbye, Sahib.’ She said and walked towards the door.

‘Is this what I have taught you so far?’ He grabbed her hand and squeezed it hard, his fingers digging deep into her skin.

She flinched in pain.

‘You will be mine. Just wait till the next session.’ He grabbed her face and started kissing her. She pushed him aside.

‘Your time is over, Sahib.’ She said.

‘So will be yours.’ He said under his breath and threw her out.

Shruti’s new house was bigger than the one before. It was one of the biggest ones, made out of red bricks and coated with shining pale concrete. Her man was better looking too, he had all of his teeth intact and his belly was smaller. If looked from a distance, he wouldn’t look as old either. There were candles and sweets placed on the wooden surfaces of the house. Villagers had come to witness the entry of Sweet Mango in her new home. Young girls stood in the front rows and wished to touch her - their inspiration " though refrained from doing so. No one was allowed to touch Sweet Mangoes " another part of their tradition, and Shruti never knew why. The girls tried to make eye contact instead, but failed. Shruti had a red veil over her face, protecting her delicate eyes from the scrutiny of the women, the jealousy of men and the admiration of children. As she walked in, she was welcomed with a delicious meal prepared by the best chef. She avoided eating too much, hoping to impress her new man later that night. It was worth it, she was the Sweetest Mango in Arudapur, and what else could she have asked for? Shruti and Aarti hadn’t had time to meet up for brunch on weekends because of their busy schedules. They would correspond through little notes, written by the postman for them, and sent across the village. Aarti had insisted Shruti to come visit her, as Aarti would usually not be able to leave the house. The following month, Shruti went to Aarti’s house and found out that Rajesh was Aarti’s man now. She lived in the same guesthouse that was Shruti’s until last year. He would beat Aarti up, keep her locked in the house, and exploit her of basic food at times. Aarti was upset to hear that he had never done those things to Shruti and she blamed his violence on his failure. Shruti wanted to tell Aarti how he had done the same to her, but instead she listened to her in silence. What if Aarti told someone about it? She couldn’t risk the chance of being on top of the list this time.

Rajesh was on the verge of ruins; he had barely managed to save his job and it was just a matter of time when he would lose all of his wealth. He had come home earlier than usual, drunk and out of work. Seeing Shruti sitting on the Charpai, and her coldness towards him had made him lose his temper. He ordered his wife and children to remain in the bedroom. He locked the main door, snatched the cup from her hands and smashed it on the floor.

‘Ever since you came in my life, I have gone through the worst days.’ He yelled, and banged his hands against the wooden table.

No longer was she his, and would never be in the future, yet he was shouting and ordering her around. Aarti, confused at Rajesh’s behaviour towards Shruti, gestured her to remain calm.

‘What do you want now?’ He clasped her arm and shook her.

Shruti flinched in pain and moved his arms away. He grabbed her by her waist and tugged her hair roughly. After all that he had done to Shruti, he continued doing the same to Aarti. And for all she knew, he had been doing the same to other women as well. However, none had the guts to fight back.

‘Sir, please calm down.’ Aarti lightly touched his shoulder but he jostled it. ‘I came to visit my friend.’ Shruti said.

‘I know women like you, you filthy little b***h!’

‘Like you’re any better.’ Shruti said.

He slapped her across the face and she landed on the floor. The hardened mud hit her on her cheekbone and it had gone numb in pain.

‘Sir, she will leave this instant. Please.’ Aarti held his hand. He pushed Aarti, got down on his knees and strangled Shruti with the thumbs of his hands pressed against her neck. Shruti tried to escape but the shortness of breath made her weak and almost unconscious. Her legs flapped against the floor, as if she were a fish that had been left to die on a barren land, suffering for her last breaths. In the next instant, Rajesh’s grip against her neck loosened and he landed on the floor.

Shruti coughed several times, and once she got a hold of herself, she looked up at Aarti only to find her with a metal vase in her hands that she had hit Rajesh with. Aarti’s eyes had widened in shock and she froze, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Aarti dropped the vase, picked Shruti up from the floor and took her outside the house. She ordered her to go back home and not to mention this to anyone.

‘I will handle everything, you promise me to keep this between us.’ Aarti said. 

Shruti nodded and made her way back home, walking as fast as she could and covering her head with the Pallu of her sari. She locked herself up in her room and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Random strands of hair had been pulled out of her braid, her left cheek had started to swell up, there was redness around her neck and her sari was covered in dirt. She took her milk-powder foundation of her drawer and covered her face with it.

It had been around four months and she hadn’t heard from Aarti. Several verbal messages and notes had gone unanswered. Every weekend, Shruti would go to their usual lunch spot by the Banyan tree in hopes of seeing her there. Rumours were that she had been killed. She went to Arudapur’s office for some information but all in vain " no one had heard of her and the ones who knew something, refused to open their mouths. She had even asked her man to find out about Aarti and he had refused to interfere in someone else’s private matter. He further asserted that she stopped stepping out of the house for a while until things cool down. After trying everything that she could, Shruti returned to being a Sweet Mango. She wore pretty clothes and expensive jewellery, kept her man happy and looked like a princess. Yet, not one day had passed by when she hadn’t thought about Aarti.

Another seven months passed, leading to the results day. However this time, Arudapur’s office had called the entire village for the ceremony that was to be held during sunset. As people gathered across the junction, the sun began to dip down lower in the sky, and threads of red hue lingered in the sky.

Shruti stood in her black silk sari and scanned through the crowd, hoping to see Aarti, but found her nowhere. In the middle, there were wooden logs placed on top of each other, criss-crossing, with hay in between them, and another wooden log was placed vertically in the centre. The fat, bald man who ran the village, stood outside the office to make the big announcement.

‘People of Arudapur, we have gathered here today to first, witness the results of our Sweet Mangoes and then, present to you our greatest failure so far.’ He said, and unveiled the blackboard with ten names written in order.

Shruti, written on top of the list stood out than the rest of them. The darkness around it had clasped the white letters and engraved them on the board, forever. The dusty ground beneath her feet was cold, almost too cold for her. She rubbed her bare feet against the ground, while everyone else continued to look at her in admiration, jealousy and hatred, but just looked, none spoke.

‘Moving on,’ the bald man continued, ‘rules have been broken and the price needs to be paid.’ He said, and a woman with a tattered and burnt sari was brought out from the office and dragged to the top of the wooden logs.

It was Aarti.

Her black locks had been shaved off her head, and her face was barely recognizable under the bruises and burnt skin. Her white sari had been stained red in blood. Every area of her body that the sari could not hide unleashed flesh that had been whipped, thrashed, and burnt. She could barely keep her head up. As per the rules of Arudapur, Aarti was punished for the crime that she had committed. No questions asked, no eyebrows raised. But wasn’t enough.

‘Disgrace. She is disgrace to our village. She hit her own man. She has insulted our tradition, our values, our culture. Her blood reeks of shame and she needs to be punished.’ The bald man said. Murmurs erupted in the crowd. It was time that they set an example for the rest of the villagers about what is right and what isn’t.

It was too late to save her.

Shruti wanted to scream, rush up to her and take the rope off her body that

firmly kept her standing on the her death bed. But nothing came out of her, no scream, no anger, and no pain " numbness was all she could feel.

‘One ought to do what they ought to do.’ Said the bald man and lit fire to the end of the rope. At first, Aarti stood as still as the ground beneath her, then within seconds, her body started to tremble, down from her feet to the top of her head. She shook her body, trying to break free, although the rope held her tight in her spot. Within seconds, the flames spread from the corners to the logs to the centre, where Aarti stood.

Shruti clenched to the Pallu of her sari, the brittle pieces of glass started to fall, but the strong ones tugged against her hand, and pierced through her soft skin. Slowly, tears streamed down Shruti’s face and soon, turned into ferocious sobs. Drops of blood landed on the soil, while she continued to tug at the mirrors, destroying the fire pattern, one by one. Aarti’s incessant screams filled the air and soon, all of her had been immersed in sea of flames. The fire and the sky crashed in a fiery battle, orange flames rocked against the wind, not wanting to give up, but soon, the fire surrendered as the dying orange blazes merged in with the crimson sky, and left only ashes behind.

 

Author's Note

Please feel free to write whatever you feel about this story - what it made you feel like? did you like it, hate it? Anything that came to your mind! Would really appreciate it! xx