Waiting for Mangoes
K. Ramesh
A flash of lightning.
I remember another night;
dinner over,
we wait for Father to cut
mangoes with a sharp knife.
We were never allowed to touch it.
After cutting the fruits,
he would wash the knife
and put it back in the cupboard.
How the yellow peel
would curl over the mango
and fall on the table!
A cool breeze enters
through the window;
The sound of rain
falling on the roof again...
My little daughter asks me,
‘Shall we play.
snakes and ladders’?
Ag Tnúth le Mangónna
Splanc thintrí.
Tagann oíche eile chun cuimhne:
an dinnéar thart
is sinn ag fanacht go ngearrfadh ár ndaid
na mangónna le scian ghéar.
Ní ligtí dúinne lámh a chur uirthi.
Tar éis dó na torthaí a ghearradh
níodh sé an scian
is chuireadh ar ais sa chupard í.
An craiceann buí
á chasadh thar an mangó
is ag titim ar an mbord!
Tagann leoithne úr isteach
tríd an bhfuinneog.
Fuaim na báistí ag titim arís
ar an díon . . .
Arsa m’iníon bheag liom:
‘An imreoimid
nathracha is dréimirí ?’
