Mango Tree

This year it bore no mangoes,
It stood there barren,
Shedding dried leaves in autumn,
Growing new ones in spring,
Pointing at my casual behaviour,
For not watering, for not even patting,
Ignoring the corner where it stood tall.

This year I grew roses,
Of different hues,
I watered them, watched them,
Smelled them, and felt proud,
All this while, I conveniently forgot my first child.

This year I will miss monkeys,
They used to come,
Every day in the morning, afternoon and sometimes evening,
Resting in the shade of tree,
Sucking the mangoes,
Ignoring my ordeal,
Mocking at me by tasting it first,
By breaching my privacy.

We used to compete,
Who would get the best deal
They discarded the raw ones, I collected them,
Keeping them in one corner of my kitchen,
Allowing them to ripe,
Under layers of cloth, and darkness,
Relishing them in solitude.

Alas, not this year,
I have this luxury,
The sweet fruit,
Has forbidden me.