Whether it is the funniest is debatable. But I did what I consider the “funniest” thing during my Middle School years.

It was the mango season, around March. After the dry winter, the mango trees put out satin leaves in coppery hues. Soon the mango flowers bloomed in pagoda stems. The bees buzzed around and pollinated. Tiny green mangoes started to show up among the cluster of cream colored flowers. The green mangoes became bigger and hung down on their stems. One was hanging at a distance within reach. Green mangoes are crisp and sour. When one bites into them, the sounrness makes one close eyes tightly.  But when we were young, we looked forward to this experience.

But, the family dictum was not to pick them before they ripen. I thought hard about eating the mango without disobeying.  

I was against disobeying. What am I to do?

In my juvenile mind, I found a way.

I was forbidden to pick the fruit. There was nothing against eating it.

I reached up to the mango and took one big bite out of it. In the immortal words of John Milton in “Paradise Lost”, when Eve ate the forbidden fruit, “Earth felt the wound”.

I  left the half eaten fruit on its stem.

I never told the tale. Birds or squirrels were naturally blamed for the condition of the mutilated mango.

But, nature took her revenge. The acidic juice of the green mango left its burn mark above my lips. It stayed there for a few days. No one interrogated me about it. It went to oblivion like a lot of my bruises.

Alas, the mango itself stayed stunted without ever reaching full growth and ripeness. It could not fulfill its hope of sweetness which was its due. It remained a mute reminder of my perfidy.