Falling For The Wrong People

Falling For The Wrong People: 1

Hey guys! So this is for a competition that I am entering here on Wattpad. Wish me luck! I seriously need it :) 

Tell me your thoughts and whatnot. I really do appreciate it.

Hope you enjoy it!

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Nadia :)

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 Ameera Chowdhury 

The sun shone down upon us as we each took hold of the sweet mangoes that had grown on the large trees above. The sweet fruit grew rapidly in Dinajpur and were then taken to the marketplaces where they were sold. If you were to visit Dinajpur, then you would learn the wonderful recipes that could be made from the orange orbs. The fruits were ironically like humans; on the outside, there wasn’t much to appreciate. They were pale, misshapen, and quite boring. However, once the skin was peeled it showed off its soft and sweet insides. If you were to ask any of the people in this town who had ever tasted a mango grown here, they would tell you how sweet the inside of one actually is and how it can make you moan in satisfaction with every piece you eat.

Many villagers would also carve them into beautiful designs to show off to others or to make the fruit itself stand out more. They were very popular in Dinajpur and no matter how poor a person was, they were lucky to taste such an amazing fruit.

Plucking them one by one, I placed them into my woven basket that my mother had proudly made for me. My family was considered to be very poor in my area and so my mother always took it upon her to provide us with the best, though that was a little hard from time to time, she never complained once. This was why as I plucked these fruits, I made sure that I treated them with the utmost care; my master would be angry if one was squashed due to my carelessness.

My eyes had deceived me as the next time I looked down, my basket had overgrown with the sweet fruits; I didn’t notice how many I had. I realised that I could only fit one more or else my basket would collapse due to the heavy weight. Working on this farm for a number of years now has made me learn of how this fruit farm works. I now know how much I can afford to carry and how much, at the end of the day, would just be an utter waste to me.

Standing onto my toes, I stretched my hand out to pluck a mango from the top branch of the tree. Times like these, I cursed my height as I was too short to reach the mangoes without any strain. Sighing heavily, I reached higher and higher until finally...it landed into my hands.

Once I made my way down from the tree I smiled proudly, despite the sweat trickling down my forehead and back. I knew that it acted as a constant reminder of what I had to go through to gather the fruits that I now carry in my arms. In this fruit farm, I work long hours under the burning sun but it is worth it. At the end of the day, I knew that I will be praised for doing this and that was always enough motivation for me.

Glancing down at the basket of mangoes, I remembered something that I should not have forgotten. If my mother was here, she would shake her head in disappointment and make clear that I should never forget my roots.

So what may seem like a fruit to most was actually the highlight of my childhood.

Sitting on my grandfather’s lap was a joy I truly treasured, listening intently as he told me stories of my family and their wonderful adventures here in Bangladesh. As a young child, I remember my father setting off to work on the same fruit farm that I work on today. I remember of the struggles that he had to face due to his weakening body, remember his smiling face every time I looked out of the window to see him work. One day, I looked out to see no-one smiling back.