Micro fiction by Sudha Subramanian

If you want a ‘mangai’ you should get it yourself

because they are soaked in the rounded ceramic pot that came with instructions on how to make the perfect brine, because your mother told me I should place it in the topmost shelf away from the sunlight, because after the exhausting dinner last night, I lack the energy to drag a stool, climb up and get the drupe for you.

Because I don’t like the smell of mangoes soaked in salt water, because I don’t like the way you smell after you bite into the juicy fruit, because I don’t like the way you say, “nearly there! You will get it, I’m sure.”

Because I hate the sight of shrivelled skin, because they remind me of my ‘wrinkled tissue’ saree I bought from the boutique store, because you said, “Not bad. But ask mother next time. She has better taste,” forgetting I chose you.

Because the sight of all the mangoes jostling for space evokes memories of the time you said, “learn yoga from mother” and bought me a yoga mat, because I no longer want to ‘adjust,’ ‘fit in’ and make room for myself like those fruits, because I don’t want to be the way you think I should be.

Because I don’t want to hear your underhanded praise of ‘not bad’ and ‘nearly,’ because I don’t want to be like your mother, because I am not in any competition, because, I am just freaking tired of everything I have done so far to please you.