India Post News Service
I almost missed the small news item tucked away on the front page of the newspaper sodden with the grief of the day- war, murder, kidnapping, accidents, fires, floods. Be still my beating heart, I said to myself. India was taking over Pakistani's share of the global mango market and shortly would be exporting Alphonso mangoes to the USA. I immediately dissolved into a beatific state. Eyes glazed, a lusty smile quivered around the lips, and a torrent of memories came tumbling in a rush, as I remembered sharp, intense sensations, and images, of my favorite fruit of all time-the Mango. The mango daze, the mango days.
I am delirious at this point. Days or daze-what did it matter? It is summer in Bangalore and the mango season. It begins with the swing. Under the mango tree. Kicking off the ground with bare feet, gaining momentum, twining my arms round the knotted gnarly ropes and I am soaring up into the branches of the mango tree.
The trick was to calculate the distance between the swing and the branch laden with luscious mangoes. Fingers grab a firm golden fruit, a quick strong tug and I am on my way swooping down with the fruit firmly held in my hands. After that, it is a time of bliss while the teeth sink into the fruit the color of haldi as I bite deep into the succulent, nectar, soft flesh while the juices spread to every corner of the mouth.
It dribbles down cheeks, lips, neck and hands and I am lost in dizzying joy...and then the teeth hit the seed. I take it out with the mushy pulp and start sucking slowly, languorously until the seed is bare. Replete, I throw away the seed and take off again to another branch hanging heavy with the mango. This time a latecomer. A still raw mango.
That was a different kind of thrill. Eaten raw, dipped in torrid chill powder and stinging salt...rapture. At night, I am given the task of going to the kitchen where in huge, cavernous copper vessels, dozens of mangoes lie floating in cool, dark water. They have been plucked at dawn by my grandfather and now lie fresh, fragrant and cool to the touch. At times, the elders would ask me to take off my skirt and blouse. And I would be given a mango.
The juice might spoil my clothes, clucked my grandmother. So there I am, the mango clutched in my throbbing fist, the juice running down my naked body. Satiated, I stand under the tap while the cold water sluices down my limbs and dry clothes await my ecstatic body. My grandparents would order mangoes by the basket from Andhra Pradesh, even though the mango trees in our garden were in abundance.
Who can resist the Andhra mangoes, with extraordinary color and flavor due to the hot, humid climate? Goods trains would bear the precious burden while we rushed to the railway station to collect our baskets while the guard ticked off each basket according to his list of customers, shoving, and pushing rapturously around him. Years later, I am intoxicated with the luscious words of the Mango Song in the James Bond film, Dr No.
Could anything be more alluring? Underneath the mango tree Me honey and me watch for the moon Underneath the mango tree Me honey and me make booloolupsu The irresistible calypso beat brings more recollections as I sing while writing this piece. Bollywood films, not to be outdone, have often had the heroine biting seductively into a delectable mango while swinging her long plaits out of the way. My husband tells me that many an old Hindi film, was it Sholay, often had the heroine eating mangoes while sitting on a swing wafted to the skies.
It is the fruit of all fruits. The myriad shapes. Round, oval, paisley, long, narrow, weighing five pounds or as small as a peach. Colors range from sunburst yellow to sunset flaming orange, from emerald green to luscious red. The names of mangoes are hypnotic, exotic, splendid, spectacular. I roll them sensuously around my tongue.
Alphonso, Shahjejan, Suvarna Rekha, Rumani, Banganapalee, Chitla, Sharifa, Totapari, Dusseheri and the green, raw mango. It was always called Polly mango because it resembled a parrot's beak and all parrots were called Polly right? Belize, on the other side of the world also has mangoes. They are called Slipper, Julie, Thundershock, Bellyful. Not appetizing names but who cares? The pickles...Raw mangoes, diced, shredded, whole laid out in the sun, seasoned and stored in jars for a whole year to embellish any meal.
Today I can order mango salsa, chicken with mango chutney, salmon sautéed in mango puree, or the mango-gazpacho where the mango is smothered with jalapeno chile, corn, garlic, red peppers, basil, cilantro, orange juice, white vinegar, lemon juice, cucumber and scallions. But no unique fusion can top the memory of the pristine mango.
And now Americans brace yourself to slurp over the most sumptuous fruit, the Indian mango. Suddenly my eyes spy a news report. Indian mangoes can be allowed into the US only if US officials inspect and certify them. But there is an administrative cost- $3 per mango since the US official's travel and expenses have to be paid on the Indian commerce side.
I await the outcome in agony. Meanwhile I go to the grocery store and buy three mangoes for a dollar. The mangoes are from the Philippines.
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