July in Imphal stinks of something
that has already decided to rot —
Sweet past the point of sweetness,
like the spice that stays long after dinner.
My grandmama would cut the mango
with the look of someone
who has outlived most of what she loved.
The knife’s silver argument; the mango’s golden answer.
Everywhere in the world,
there is a mango
and someone’s grandmama
and a knife that has cut too much.
The juice drips down the wrist
like the one scene
you meant to see
before the window closed.

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Hijam Pritam Meetei is a Master’s student in English Literature at the University of Delhi. His work explores the intersection of Manipur heritage, domestic endurance, and the sensory landscape of home.