In Vrndavan, India, with a few friends, we would make the rounds of the exotic markets, old libraries and historic temples. In July, at the peak of the season, we would find bright orange Alphonso mangos from a local wallaÂ and a watermelon from a farmer in the field. In the cool,wide and shallow stream of the Yamuna river, we buried the fruit in the silty bottom. We walked among the five hundred year old shrines, returning in an hour to harvest the chilled crop. Certain mangos in India are unbelievable. If one could conjure up an ideal fruit, this would be a prime canditate. The easily peeled skin revealed a melt in the mouth, non stringy flesh that tasted like a cross between a pineapple and floral honey. The small pit was the perfect size to suck the last drops of mango nectar from. The Indian sun-drenched watermelons quenched the thirst and filled the stomach with sugary satisfaction that can only be had in the warm sun, cool water and sweet air of rural India. In those days we lived a simple life, but experienced great pleasures through these fruits. Whatever could not be finished were shared with passing locals, many of them sadhus, who appreciated the taste and the spirit in which it was offered.