They lay there, one on top of another, squeezing into the little place not fighting over space. Some had the luxury of a cover, but most were left open to the elements. They were all dirty, dust from the street forming a fine layer on their glossy skins marred only by the dried up residual gum – one of the last reminders of where they came from, how they were ripped out from their safe cocoons amid all the green and brown.

Every now and then, one of them would leave, never to return. They never protested. The young ones tried to hide below when they sensed danger, but the wise old ones knew that when it was time to go, it was time to go.

When it was time to go, it was time to go fulfill their destiny.

Their destiny to be eaten. After all, what were mangoes for?

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