Summer is here, but something’s wrong—
No mango smells, no street-side song.
Just one or two in stores I see,
But not the ones that lived with me.

No poly, langra, nor raspuri or Totapuri,
No juicy bite, just a limited mango glory. Views of Alphonso and maybe Kesar flown far away,
A little taste, but none of them make my day.

I miss the trees, the sun, the Indian heat,
The sticky hands, from a savoured mango feast.
Miles away, I sit here and sigh—
As i watch another glorious Indian mango season passing by.