Chutney

What capacity for feeling possessive the human soul possess. I sit in my living room, writing this as my ears are picking up every hint of falling fruit in my garden lest the neighbours should get there before me. This is the story of every Kal-boishaki storm in Bangladesh, when mangos are prematurely torn of the branches and brought down into jars of chutney. I don’t make chutney and wish I could leave the mangoes for my neighbours to pick up, but I would rather give them to them so that they know of my generosity – and perhaps returns a jar of chutney for the favour.