It started with one bite. A perfectly ripe mango, held in both hands, split open like treasure. The pulp was golden, too eager to stay inside, and I—reckless in my greed—let it drip. A little stream ran down my chin, then my wrist, then onto my shirt. Cotton, cream-colored, freshly washed. The stain landed with the confidence of something permanent. I dabbed at it with water, then tissue, then mild panic. But deep down, I knew: that mango stain was going to stay.
We tried everything. Soap, lime, detergent paste made lovingly by my mother like it was some ancient poultice. The shirt was soaked, scrubbed, sun-dried, and still… there it was. Faint but stubborn. A yellow bloom just over the waistline, shaped vaguely like guilt. For months after, I kept the shirt at the bottom of the drawer, unsure if I should wear it again or frame it as evidence of summer’s best mistake.
The Sweetest Offense
The mango wasn’t at fault, of course. It never is. Especially when it’s that kind—the kind you eat in silence because it demands both hands and your full devotion. Langda, Kesar, Badami, or my personal undoing, Alphonso. You don’t eat it neatly. You lean over the sink. You suck the seed. You abandon all etiquette. And your clothes, your dignity, your fingers—they all come away marked.
That particular mango came from a crate gifted by an uncle visiting from Ratnagiri. “Farm direct,” he’d said proudly. They came swaddled in straw, each one soft to the touch, fragrant before they were even cut. We devoured them like we were trying to eat faster than the heat. No plates, no spoons. Just halves sliced open and handed around like delicate contraband. And somewhere in that joyful frenzy, my shirt gave its life.
Stain as Story
Years later, I still have the shirt. It’s been demoted to housewear. I wear it while cooking, or on lazy Sundays when nothing needs to match. And every time I see that faint yellow mark, I don’t think of mess. I think of mango season. I think of sticky hands and sun-drenched afternoons and the fan spinning overhead while the smell of ripe fruit filled the house. I think of my mother laughing while I cursed under my breath, dabbing at the shirt with vinegar and futile hope.
Because some stains are annoying. But some? Some are reminders. That you were present. That you felt joy. That you allowed yourself to eat freely, carelessly, and without the burden of napkins. That you chose mango over neatness.
Other Stains Came Out
The ketchup on the school uniform. The sambar on the white kurta. Even the oil splash from frying papad—all gone eventually. But the mango? That one stayed. It didn’t fade like the others. It became softer, sure. Less obvious. But it never truly left. It’s the quiet kind of stubborn. Like memory. Like longing. Like the taste of summer when you’re deep in December and wondering if the next crate will be as good as the last.
To Eat and Be Marked
Maybe that’s the deal with mangoes. You don’t just eat them. They leave evidence. On your clothes, your fingers, the corner of your mouth. Sometimes even on your soul. They ruin white shirts, but they also fix bad moods. And if that’s the trade—if a shirt must carry a mark so you can carry a moment—I think it’s worth it.
So yes, that mango stain never came out. And I’m glad. Because every time I wear that shirt, I don’t see a ruined fabric. I see a flash of orange pulp. A slice of heat. A bite of something so sweet, it refused to be forgotten.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
