The Real deal

I cut open the cellotape-sealed

white cardboard box.

On it is our surname,

written in Devnagri.

All of us know what to expect

but we huddle around it,

trying to be casual -

all of us adults,

our eyes betraying

the pretense of having chill.

Before the flaps are up,

our eyes shut slowly

in response to the divine smell

filling up the entire house

very, very quickly.

I reach in and discard

the uppermost layer of hay.

And there they are -

12 of the finest fruits,

red-green-yellowish each,

lined in a rectangle of 4x3 pieces.

There is another box,

similar, but not quite.

The others move on to it quickly,

but not me, not yet.

The mango elitist in me won't allow it.

So I continue to sit there

marveling at the curves and edges

thinking to myself,

भैया, आम हो तो हापुस

वरना ना हो।

ये पायरी-वायरी कैसा मज़ाक है?