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'Tis The Season For Mangoes

T. SHER SINGH

DAILY FIX

Monday, May 14, 2012

There was a time when the height of the mango season was limited to a tight two-month window in the peak of summer on the subcontinent.

You hungered for the first mangoes to arrive and mourned when the last ones disappeared.

It’s all changed now. Here, for those who live in Canada, at least.

Fruits do not have to be seasonal any more to find their way to your table, because it is spring or summer in the southern hemisphere, even when its fall or winter in the north.

So, mangoes from South America or South Africa, for example, appear in abundance in the market when those from the subcontinent get out of season.

Also, with the greater demand for the fruit worldwide, orchards are being planted in warm climes everywhere.

As well, the proliferation of the cold-storage industry has ensured that there no more gaps in supply.

One would think this free supply of ‘diamonds’ would lower the demand, but not a chance! Whereas not a trace of mango could be found in Canada for the first 20 years after we settled here, now ship-loads arrive - literally - and are stocked by fruit vendors everywhere. Even here in this hamlet of Mount Forest.

But no mangoes for the early 20 years was not an easy ordeal. It was one of the few things we sorely missed from “back home“.

I recall when my parents went back to India for a visit early on and, knowing their value, brought back two mangoes, well hidden in a suitcase.

They were quickly sniffed out by the ever-nosy Toronto customs - bringing fruit products from abroad, without quarantine, was a definite no-no. They were asked to summarily discard them in the garbage can.

Mangoes in the garbage? That would be sacrilegious! Rather than throw away the precious commodity, my parents simply sat down on a bench and - with the permission of the officers, but to their utter puzzlement - ate them!

Now that they are freely available hasn’t diluted our passion a bit.

And ‘passion’ is indeed the right word.

I can’t think of any other fruit which arouses a gleam in one’s eye universally, makes the heart sing, gives birth to poetry, the way a mango does.

There is one fruit which comes a distant second in arousing passion … the Durian!

But it’s a different kind of passion.

Disgust. There are a number of countries that have actually banned its consumption in public, it’s so hated. [Though, there are those who will swear by it, despite its disgusting odour.]

But with the mango, it’s unadulterated love.

Our sprawling boarding school campus in Digha, some distance away from Patna, was wrapped around in mango orchards. And they were no ordinary mangoes. Those who have tasted the Digha Malda know that there is no equal.

I remember how, even as a fourth- and fifth grader, the lure of the fruit dangling from the high branches was impossibly irresistible!

A total ban for students from climbing the trees had little effect. Many a time did I feel the wrath of the Irishman’s leather-strap or the ubiquitous cane, having been caught in compromising situations by no less than Brother Burke or Dineen or Comber themselves, the heartless school principals who laid down the law of the land.     

The summer vacation that came soon thereafter was essentially one long, uninterrupted mango fest.  

Early in the season, late on a Sunday afternoon, as soon as the sun began to relent, we’d all head for the Digha suburbs. The mango orchards were the magnet.

First, lots of bargaining. When a deal for finally struck - Rs. 20, I recall, for 100 mangoes (in today’s money, 40 cents, but worth about US$ 2 then), total! - things finally got moving.

One of the orchard owner’s minions would clamber up a tree - we, the kids, were not allowed up while under the direct, watchful eye of our elders. But we did perch ourselves below. One by one, the boy would pluck off a mango and simply let it go.

Down below, it was a game, and a dangerous one. But in an age when the concept of safety was waiting to be discovered - child-seat-belts, for example, were for yet to be invented - no one thought about a child being brained by a 2-lb malda.

So, we’d run around catching them and dumping them in a basket. Those we missed were put aside as ’daagi’ - blemished. Later, they’d be thrown in free, not to be counted as part of the 100. And to be eaten first, for they would ripen unevenly, because of the injury.

As we progressed with the exercise, my mother would be doing her arithmetic and announce we needed another 100. Why? Because the mangoes were so good, surely we should send a basket-full or two to Ranchi for my paternal uncles and grandparents, to Punjab to my maternal grand-parents, and to Samastipur to my maternal aunt … and so on.

Once home with the loot, there was a whole regimen to be followed.

First and foremost, a dozen or more were dropped into a tub of water out in the verandah, and chunks of ice thrown in. The ripe ones needed to be cooled off quickly and consumed, before they got away!

Another lot was buried in the huge flour chest, deep in the powder. The theory was that they would ripen there slowly and evenly, the required number retrieved each day to be drawn and quartered and …

A number of baskets would appear, and lots of 20 were distributed amongst them. They would have to be packaged in jute cloth the next day and shipped off by train.

[Rarely would they arrive at their destinations intact. The digha maldas had a loud aroma, a lot of humanity would be in its proximity over the next few days, and, after all, this was India! Imagine the rest. But it was the love behind the gesture, the letters would say when we heard back from our relatives, even though they had received a basket full of bricks instead!]   

Once the administration of mangoes had been completed, the grand finale!

It would be darkling by now, but blissfully cool out on the verandah. All (who could) were stripped down to basics. Which meant the little ones, I being one of then, would be reduced to undies and little else.

And then, we went for it.

There is no easy way of eating mangoes. If you want to enjoy them. No place for forks and knives. By definition, it’s a sloppy affair, but, oh-h, pure pleasure.

That was dinner.  Followed by a mandatory glass of kacchi lassi - a mildly sweet, cold, refreshing drink made simply by considerably diluting milk with water, and adding a grain or two of cardamom and a drop of rose extract for flavour.

The drink was geared to countering the acidity of the mangoes. Generally, the acidity in the mangoes isn’t too bad. But, if you are a toddler and have gorged four in a single night, you are now a vat of acid!

The best was yet to come. My mother would give the signal. The servants would pull out the hose and turn the spray on us, the kids. We had to be watered down before we were allowed in - the stains from mangoes are almost as bad as those from turmeric.

Night after night of these summer orgies had their unique side-effects.

The most memorable one - for the pure pain and pleasure it added to the whole experience - emanated from the fact that the overdose caused a lot of ’heat’ within the body. It was the acid, I expect, not being well-versed in chemistry and biology, but brought up liberally on grandma’s pronouncements.

So, you itched, especially in the stretch of the back. It was like an alien trying to get out, but from below your shoulders and sneaking out from behind.       

So, monkey-like - we had learnt the method, I’m sure, by watching the primates that abounded wild in our neighbourhood - we were recruited to scratch each other’s backs. The itch was intense and had to be fed.

At times, it was unbearable. Our walls were whitewashed with lime, which meant they had a slightly rough and bumpy surface. So, if the adults weren’t looking, we’d sidle up to a wall, stand against it with the back flat against the wall, and rub and grind on it.

Until we bled.

Painful though it was, like all itches, it was also immensely pleasurable in relieving it. So much so, that as kids, we couldn’t stop. With eyes closed in ecstasy, we’d be caught later, our blood-stained shirts an instant giveaway.

There are other passions unleashed by the mango as well.

A few years ago, I acted for a spouse in a broken marriage and a lengthy court battle involving, inter alia, division of property. The issue of children had been, relatively, an easy one, and so were the house’s contents and the residence and alimony.

What complicated matters to no end was the existence of family-owned - an old Muslim household from Lucknow in the historic United Provinces, now Uttar Pradesh - mango orchards back home.

One of the parties was, literally, a renowned nuclear scientist, but it was the bloody mangoes that they kept tripping on. Each hankered for their ownership - it was a matter of prestige.

So we hauled in experts on the mango from across the seven seas. And they opined, day after day, week after week, desi-style, on the various species of mangoes, the way they are cultivated and farmed, their life-cycles, their variable values, etc., etc.

The witless witnesses drove the witless judge crazier by the day.

I must confess I loved it all. Now, I had even more reason to enjoy each bite I would take henceforth of a mango.

What is it about the mango that drives people to distraction?

I don’t know.

All I can point to is its meaty morsels. They are good even when they’re bad. One chomps into one even if it isn’t ripe. If it’s a mango, it’s okay.

Mango jam. Mango pickles. Mango juice. Mango lassi. Mango kulfi. Mango ice cream. Dried mango. Mango dressing ...

If it has a picture of a mango, it’s okay.

I can’t tell you how many I consume now, for fear of being chastised by my doctor, or scolded by my daughter. But, between you and me, as long as this doesn’t go public, I buy ‘em by the crate!
 
They call it the King of Fruits.

There are myths and legends, songs and poetry …

Mohan Singh’s timeless poem, classic Ambi da boota? 

Or the story of Maharaja Ranjit Singh’s obsession with the fruit.

The great emperor of the Sikh Kingdom was famous for having showered all visitors to his court with gifts of shawls - expensive, finely crafted pashminas. But historians have neglected to detail the other gift he loved to give to anyone who pleased him: baskets full of mangoes!

I remember reading his daily court records in which he would question his English guests incessantly - in King of Brobdingnag fashion - about the lifestyle of the English.

Ranjit Singh added to his long list of disdainful things about the firangee (Englishman) when one such visitor confirmed to him that they did not have mangoes in England!   

And then, there’s the story of the inimitable poet, Mirza Ghalib. He too was irretrievably smitten by his love for mangoes.

Many are the stories about him and the king of fruits.

But my favourite is about when he was being teased by his friend, the King, over his obsession. The two had just finished eating some mangoes and had thrown the leftover skins and pods from the fruit out of the window into the garbage.

A donkey passing by at that very moment stopped to sniff the refuse, and hurriedly trotted away, braying disapprovingly.

“Ah!” exclaimed the king, meaning to needle his friend, “Mirza Sahib, you see, even the donkeys don’t like mangoes!” 

Ever the wordsmith, Ghalib replied, “No, Sire, only donkeys don’t like mangoes!” 

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