My great-aunt thunked a metal bucket down on the floor. It was filled with small, ripe mangoes dunked in clear water. “Eat,” she said. “As many as you want.”
What better opening lines could there be for a holiday far from home for a newly-turned 16-year-old and her 10-year-old sister? That entire vacation, my sister and I greedily gobbled up Chaunsa mangoes: hold the fruit firm in your hand, make a slit at one end, and suck out the sweet, juicy pulp inside. I didn’t know then, it appears it was Sher Shah Suri’s favourite mango and he named it Chaunsa to commemorate his vanquishing Humayun at Chausa, near Patna!
Our backyard at home in Madras was filled with fruit trees, mostly mango, mostly Banganapalle. We excitedly watched the flowers bloom and the fruits appear, first small, firm and green, and gradually growing larger. Somehow, I don’t remember the squirrels – that was our grandmother’s department. She diligently, meticulously, lovingly watched over the trees, and when the time was right, arranged to pluck them and store them to ripen.
First, they went into the underground room in one of the bedrooms. You lifted up a hatch on the floor by hooking your fingers through breathing holes that ran all over the beautifully designed piece of polished wood, went down the wooden stairs, and entered a room of mystery housing all kinds of things.
For most of the year it had a pleasant smell of Kanjeevaram silk saris, but come summer the mangoes took over, nestled snugly in rolls of hay. When they ripened somewhat, they were removed to the storeroom which was within easy distance of small hands. There they lay expectantly, ripening further: a roomful of mangoes and no one to stop you from taking however many you wanted. The funny thing was, not one mango remained undemolished, not one mango spoiled.
Delicious holidays
Summer holidays for a certain part of our lives meant that all the cousins gathered in one place, usually our home. And one of the littlest ones, all of 5/6/7, depending on which summer it was, was honoured with the onerous responsibility of plying the rest of the party with the fruit, every day, at a given time – that’s not accounting for the mangoes that were gobbled up at other times! Her duties were laid out clearly. Up and down she would go, one mango balanced on one plate, upstairs-downstairs, upstairs-downstairs, her little hands never flagging, nor her proud smile.
The best Banganapalle can be eaten raw or ripe – both are equally delicious. The fruit from the home orchard was never tart; even the skin tasted good. Ever so often, basketloads of Benisha, cousin to the Banganapalle, would arrive from family in Panyam, near Kurnool, in Andhra Pradesh. As the name suggests, they were benisha , blemishless and luscious.
Sometimes, I remember, there would be the green Langdas of Bengal, their bright orange, oozy pulp distinctly flavoured and richly sweet. There were also images of country mangoes hanging low from trees near our school and home, and sold in thousands in a market at the corner of our township in Durgapur. When I saw small boys and girls biting into these mangoes, they reminded me of scenes from Rabindranath Tagore’s stories.
But in Madras, it was Rule Banganapallia. The Malgovas and Imam Pasands, Alphonsos and Dasseris came much later into our lives. Probably because we never bought mangoes, they were always there, in that gloriously bountiful corner.
It was only after that garden and those summers metamorphosed into memory that the march of the mangoes registered as early birds, reigning monarchs, last-ditch pitches, and parting shots. We discovered Neelam, the mango with the insect – the insect being a sure indicator of its sweetness. No poochi , no sweetie. No biting into Neelam, respectfully slice.
The very last mango of the season, signalling the end of summer, was the Rumani. It took a while to learn to like this round, unmango-looking thing. But I’ve often thought that, of all the mangoes, it’s the Rumani that knows who it really is. The last one, the afterthought, the foot soldier plodding on bravely, unnoticed and unsung, but there to fulfill final cravings. That’s why the skin is so thin and easy to peel off, and the seed so tiny: even a small-sized fruit is fleshy.
Pickles and preserves
Once Rumani leaves the stage, it’s up to the avakkais and thokkus and vadumangaas to tickle our palates – raw mango pickled in a myriad mouth-watering ways. My friend, Mythili, whips up a delightful concoction that’s so easy to make. First, chop raw mango (maybe Kilimookku, aka Totapuri and Bangalora – sold on Chennai beaches in necklaces topped with salt and chilli powder) real fine, and throw into a mixture of light tamarind water sweetened with jaggery. You can add fresh neem flowers if you like, just a few. Of course, salt to taste, and tempered with mustard seed, red chilly and asafoetida. It’s yummy!
The other thing you could do – out of a zillion – is chop raw mango into somewhat bigger pieces, set aside. In a little oil, splutter saunf (fennel seeds, sombu ), kala jeera (black cumin seeds), mustard seed, methi (fenugreek seeds, vendiyam ), and red chillies. Throw in the chopped mango, sprinkle salt or jaggery, cover and cook until the mango pieces soften. If you like gooey, go for gooey! Basically, enjoy!
So, is the mango monarch of all it surveys? What’s your mango story?