Every market day, I’d bring home mangoes — dozens of them, fat and golden, their skins sticky with sweetness. I’d eat them lazily, juice running down my wrists, tossing the pits into the bin without a thought.
Kavita, my maid, heavy with child, would watch. Every time. Her eyes would flicker to the fruit, then away, as if ashamed of her own want. Then, softly, “Didi, can I take one?”
I’d shrug, push a mango toward her. But inside, I’d scoff. Again? It wasn’t about the mangoes — it was the asking. The neediness. One day, irritation got the better of me. “Kavita, you’re from a village. Don’t you have trees there? Or just buy some if you want them so badly.”
Her hands stilled. She didn’t look up.
“In my village,” she said, voice low, “the trees belong to the zamindar. We’re allowed to pick up the ones that fall — the ones the birds have pecked, the ones rotting in the dirt. My mother used to cut away the bad parts, give us what was left.” She wiped her hands on her faded sari. “And buying? Didi, one mango is two rotis. My husband doesn’t eat so I can have fruit. The baby needs milk. Needs clothes.” She smiled then, small and tired. “When you give me one, I take it home. We share it — like a sweet secret.”
I stared at her. The fan whirred overhead. Somewhere outside, a vendor called out, selling something no one would buy.
That evening, I left a whole tray of mangoes by her bag. She didn’t thank me. She just pressed her palms together, eyes wet.
We women walk the same earth, but we don’t live the same life. What I waste, she worships. What I ignore, she holds like a prayer. And that day, I learned — luxury isn’t always diamonds. Sometimes, it’s just a mango. Uneaten. Given freely.
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