Mango fruity, fresh and juicy.

In the beginning was the word and before the word there were open fields and trees. The owners of the trees fiercely guarded their right to partake of the fruit of their trees. They protected their trees form thieving kids [ i.e. us ] with large sticks and dogs that foamed at the mouth and wanted to bite into us with as much enthuiasm as we wanted to bite into their owners mangoes or jambuls or perus. So partaking of the fruit of the earth that God thru an oversight [ In the days before Google Earth ] had planted in the neighbours compound was not easy. It was fun and exciting but not easy.
The closer the tree to the house the sweeter and riper the fruit. The trees further away, beyond eyesight and earshot were easy pickings. so mangoes that had not come to full term and perus that were just barely enjoying their gauva youth were culled before they could ripen into mature adults. We'd fool ourselves into believing that these sour buds were actually tasty. The quantity of salt and chilly powder that went onto them to make the fit for human consumption would have softened shoe leather. While the peripheral fruit trees had been stripped bare the ones closer to the owners eyes would be bending over as the fruit ripened. Sorties would be planned between the time the owner went of for daily mass and his wife got back from her sodality meeting. Between his afternoon Sunday lunch and his 4 oclock tea,[siesta time i.e. ]. The breeze had to be blowing downwind of the dog. If he smelt thieves in his coumpound would break into a frenzy of barking that would have woken the dead in far away Haines Road cemetry. Jams ,jambuls, karvandas, boras, owlas, imlees, our cup ranneth over. But thru all our mauruding efforts there would still be enough left over to ripen. That the owner would pluck and some of which his wife would put into a bowl with a doily over it and send to Mummy. And they would lie in the fruit bowl untouched for days . Because stolen fruit really is the sweetest.