The following poem by Akshita Sharma of New Delhi won Ten Thousand Rupees in Wingword Poetry Competition 2026.
I always wondered his favourite fruit was:
Pears, perhaps, pomegranates or purple plums,
something unconventional or exotic,
tempting rarity, something he was smitten with in his childhood;
certainly something neither indigenous nor customary.
I learned that his favourite was the mango, in all its infinite varieties,
only when I pressed him for an answer.
Just imagine my father climbing mango trees as a child,
running back home, with greenish-yellow globes
borne triumphantly on tissue-soft palms,
each one carefully sealed, like a little cocoon,
patiently waiting, to burst open at the right time.
And then, imagine my grandparents’ tiny fridge
full of these chartreuse ellipsoids,—
with no space for milk or eggs—
and two eager little children with wide, glinting eyes,
hovering around in off-white undershirts and bright-coloured shorts,
impatient (unlike the mangoes),
yearning to delve into this magical, tempting fruit—
yellow, juicy spills and glistening teeth.
I often wonder why it is so difficult
for me to think of my father as a popsicle licking, fun loving child—
wrinkleless and delicately naïve.
I wonder if he remembers those days at all,
with his now greying hair, time worn hands and wearied zeal,
time-strained ,emotion-drained on his sturdy wooden desk,
I wonder if he experiences a whimsical fondness,
when he succumbs to temptation and digs into the fruit so eagerly,
raw and wild,
an eagerness so passionate and unrefined,
so childlike and trusting that even today,
I can see his eyes shine with unworldly amazement,
sparkling with guileless purity of spirit.
I wonder.