Indian Mangoes

I am now a proud resident of a-place-i won’t-name near the University of the Philippines - Diliman, as i desire to remain as anonymous as possible. And lately, whenever I go to work or go home or visit a friend in the university, passing through the busy place called Philcoa is unavoidable. The place is teeming with people from all walks of life: students, professors, weirdoes, geeks, hipsters, employees, fishball and kikiam vendors, peanut vendors, and fruit vendors all pass by this small but densely-peopled area. All kinds of imitation flip-flops, bags, belts, ponytails, bling-blings, and cellphone cases (with the popular angry bird themes) spread out on the floor are also regular dwellers as early as the morning sun sets outs its light rays. The children and other family members of the vendors roaming around the place are also a fun sight to see, while they shout at each other, sleep, or simply roam around. One won’t pass through what is left of the walkable, narrow stretch of cement without brushing another person’s shoulder.

I am one of the regular busybodies passing through Philcoa, and amidst all the city bustle it is the mango vendors, particularly those who sell those green Indian mangoes, sometimes stationed in front of Mercury drug, sometimes in the overpass, who I make the best transactions with. Let me just describe the method of preparation of these tropical fruit. The vendors peel the fruit perfectly, revealing the rich, yellow-green color of the juicy flesh, leaving only traces of the green protective covering. Then they carefully slice all the flesh outside the seed into tiny petals protruding outward, such that the mango now looks like a water-dwelling flower, more like a south-east asian version of tulip. The vendor then places four of those in a clear plastic, which they fill completely with air and tie them tightly. The finished products are then displayed neatly on top of the heap of unpeeled, raw mangoes in the old, wooden cart which some of them walk to Philcoa everyday. Once you open it, you eagerly poke the plastic, let some of the air out, and widen the hole. You insert your thumb and middle finger, move them like pincers, and finally pick a fleshy “petal,” one after the other. Pure bliss comes afterwards. You place the the fruit between your teeth, bite, and feel the crunch resounding inside your oral cavity. You experience the semi-sour-semi-sweet taste of the just-about-to-ripen mango. These foods are most enjoyable when consumed in the public utility vehicles, especially while riding jeepney labelled PANTRANCO. Nevermind the log-colored guy on your right, wearing sando, shorts, slippers, and a jeje cap. Nevermind the jeepney driver on you left, with filthy hands covered in several layers of dirt. Nevermind the couple doing PDA on the opposite side of the jeep. For a person who feeds his/her stomach mostly on cheap fastfoods and factory-processed products, the Indian mangoes are like Belgian chocolate for the price of just a small KitKat. Throughout the jeepney ride, the world automatically revolves on those fresh, delicate indian mangoes, and you attentively, eagerly savor the snack. When nothing is left, suddenly everything goes POOF!, and now you return to the real world - the dark smoke sticking to your face, the heat of the sun, the noisy traffic. Once again you long to feel the tingling sensation from those P20 Indian mangoes.