I try to tell them what that globular fruit tastes like,

tell them how Banjaras scoured it from the thorny and mostly barren hillocks,

and brought it to our childhood streets in their endless autumnal caravans,

tell them how we peeled its turtle shell back, carefully, to sink a hungering finger

into its white custard, and of how we savored whole mouthfuls of pitted sweetness,

and spit to the ground endless constellations of eye-like seeds. Frankly though, sometimes

I don't know if I am talking about that fruit or your memory, Kannamma.