But Rehana had decided long ago this was a stupid rule. She couldn’t remember who had told her that rule – her mother? – no, her mother had probably never sliced a mango in her brief, dreamy life. There was a rule about not touching pickles during the monthlies. Then she would stuff them into jars and leave them on the roof to ripen. She would slice the green mangoes and cook them slowly with chillies and mustard seeds. Maya was by far the better climber: her foot would curl over the branches and hold her fast, while she stretched her arms and plucked the fruit, throwing it down to Rehana, who kept shouting, ‘Be careful! Be careful!’
When they were younger, this was the children’s job.
She asked the boys to pick them from the tree. The mangoes on the tree were just about ready: grassy-green and “There was only one thing to do, she decided: make pickles.
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