Every summer (he hadn't gone through many, but he hoped it was every summer like Balram told him), something magical would happen. Melons would swell and the winds would blow, and as the temperatures rose, all the kids flocked towards shade, and amongst all this activity, the green fruit on each tree would begin to turn a pale orange. 

Behold. The Mango. God's greatest gift (aside from him, of course).

Krishna loved mangoes. It was a fact. He would dedicate his entire life to them if he could. This was something he had discovered long ago, when his father had fed him small pieces of the very first ripe mango found that year, all tender and soft. 

He could practically hear holy music when the first taste had hit him. Forget Kans, this must have been the reason he had ever incarnated. It was like sweet nectar, juice flowing like melted gold, the best thing in the universe.

 Plus, it was all cute and small, just like him.

He'd almost bitten off his father's hand in his excitement.

He also remembered how his father had managed to source a little piece of heaven. Every few days during harvest season, just when the sun towered above all of them, the mango vendor would teeter up the hill, down the road, and over to their house in the center of the village. She would have many baskets stacked on her small head, and two tucked in her hands.

"Mangoes!" she called, and Krishna liked to tug his father's white dhoti from whatever unimportant work he was doing, pulling him outside. 

Nanda would laugh, Yashoda would laugh, even Balram would laugh sometimes, but Krishna didn't get the joke. Mangoes were an important matter, and besides, his brother laughed at everything. It was a terrible flaw of his.

Still chuckling, his father would walk up with a large basket of grain, and pass it to her in exchange for a bowl of mangoes, and she would bow her head repeatedly, murmuring about how generous he was, the king of the cowherds. "Thank you, Maharaj Nanda. I will be able to feed my family well because of you."

Meanwhile Krishna liked to stand near their house with Balram, clapping excitedly for the mangoes and chanting his father's name. His father was generous, getting all those pretty mangoes just for him. And fine, he would give one to Balram too, just because he was nice like that and not because Maa Yashoda had told him to share.

He had finished the last barrel in record time (two minutes, the time it took Balram to eat one) and while Maa Yashoda always complained about him getting a stomach ache (simply untrue, Gods didn't get mortal pains like that), he never got tired of them.

Mangoes were beautiful. Mangoes were charming. Mangoes could probably cure any sickness in their village in case he wasn't in attendance.

Krishna and Mangoes, everyone's favorite jodi.

"HEY!"

Okay, maybe not Balram's, but it wasn't Krishna's fault that he didn't want his dearly beloved spending any time with his brother. Love jodis were so rare these days, and he didn't want his own to be jeopardized by a grumpy Dau.

"Papa says you had to give me one more!"

"Krishna says no! Aam and Krishna forever!"

"But what about Radha?"

"Aama not Radha!"