Just when I decide that an orange is an orange, it turns out to be an apple. And I heave a sigh of relief that I didn’t bite it. And be disappointed. Which reaffirms the notion that I cannot discern an apple from an orange. And then I’m off fruits for a few more centuries. How much longer do I go starved? Should I just bite and then decide what fruit it is? And throw it in the waste paper basket if I don’t like it? I can’t. Do I make myself eat the entire fruit until the juice is wrung dry, the juice that I didn’t like anyway? And then throw the wasted core away? Or do I make myself like the fruit? Why?

There was a time when fruits were easy. All sucked. All tasted bad, and it was just a mere avowal not to eat fruits, and drink juice instead. Drinking juice was always easier, because they came in pre-packaged containers that had a straw for easy drinking. And then I could crush the tetra-pack into a ball and carefully aim it to the nearest dustbin. Easy. But I’m sick of drinking them now. I want to chew my own and hum cheerfully as I taste my favourite fruit. But I can’t choose them correctly. And all I can do is write about fruits. Exactly the kind I want, and it happily comes to me. Bright orange, with liberal amounts of sweet and tangy alternate tastes. One that I can peel and chew and gulp them down, occasionally spitting out seeds, which keeps me alert. And I can sit in the sun and wait for it to rain, so that the orange tastes even better. The orange may finish, but it would still leave me better satisfied and happier than before I ate the orange. But I don’t know where the orange tree is. I mistook the apple one for it. I cradled it in my arms and brought it home. It was dark red and shiny. It invited attention. It was an apple. It was an apple.