I am not someone who has hidebound ideas about food or castigates people whose tastes differ from mine. In fact, I’ve been a victim of food-shaming myself and have received virulent abuse from people for expressing ‘non-traditional views’ about some Bengali dishes, in an earlier edition of this newsletter (see below).
Having been at the receiving end of venomous attacks, I strongly believe we should make space for all sorts of food opinions. Everyone is entitled to their own views about food and even if we disagree, we should never engage in petty mockery and condemnation. Except for people who dislike mangoes. They are beyond the pale and, frankly, it is our duty to mock and condemn them.
The mango does not exist merely in the material world. Sure, you can hold it, smell it, and sense it as a physical object. You can wash it and feel the tiny undulations on its peel, with your fingertips. You can rotate it in your hands and then slice it with a knife in one smooth motion. But when you sink your teeth into its pulp, the effect is transcendental. You do not simply eat a mango. You experience a mango at a spiritual and metaphysical level; indeed, it is a portal to an enlightened state. This is not idle hyperbole: there exist many legends and folktales in the Buddhist tradition, about the philosophical lessons that can be gleaned from the mango1.
And let’s not forget how the mango stopped one of the greatest conquerors in his tracks.
In 336 BC, Alexander III of Macedon began the military campaigns which would lead to him being conferred the moniker, Alexander the Great. By 327 - 326 BC, he had expanded his kingdom to the edges of the Indian sub-continent and amassed a fortune large enough to buy a reasonably sized 2BHK in south Mumbai (no balconies). Historical records show that in this land, Alexander was introduced to mangoes for the first time and was enamoured by them. Soon thereafter, the Alexander juggernaut paused, decided to turn around and head home. Was this a mere coincidence? Having tasted a mango, did Alexander realise that violence (and the desire to invest in real estate in Mumbai) is a futile pursuit? Did the mango alter the course of world history? The answer, I think, is obvious.
There have been countless other patrons of the mango, over the years. The poet-genius Amir Khusro crowned it Fakhr-e-Gulshan (Pride of the Orchards), and he generally knew what he was talking about. (As an aside, while researching this piece I discovered that, in 2019, Ariana Grande had tweeted a mango-related poem composed by Amir Khusro more than 700 years ago2. Mango, connecting people over centuries!) Many of the Mughal monarchs were avowed fans as well, and the mango features in their biographies and in mughal-era art.
But we don’t need to dive into the annals of history to find examples of mango’s popularity and cultural relevance. More recently, a strange series of events led to the mango assuming centre-stage in our public consciousness.
In the run-up to the 2019 General Elections in India, it was announced that International Patriot™, Akshay Kumar, would conduct a free-wheeling “interview” with the Prime Minister, Narendra Modi. This created quite a stir; at the time, the Prime Minister had not appeared for a single press conference, and people hoped that Akshay Kumar would use this opportunity to quiz him on matters of national import. Everyone agreed this was a rare opportunity to delve into the mind of the most powerful man in the country. Perhaps Akshay Kumar would ask him about the many challenges posed by demonetization or the increasing polarization and hate-mongering by his party or the myriad other things one can ask the head of Government.
As it happens, Akshay Kumar, asked Narendra Modi a question few could have conceived of: “Kya aap aam khaate ho? (Do you eat mangoes?)”.3
And thus, the mango became the gold standard for investigative journalism.
I am currently reading Remnants of a Separation by Aanchal Malhotra, a book about the Partition based on oral history linked to objects. It is a fascinating concept, grounded on the premise that people often attach memories of a place or event, perhaps unknowingly, to certain items, which then become totems charged with remembrance. And though our conscious memory may fade over time, the sheer physicality of these objects safeguards these memories and offers them up for recollection, whenever needed.
By that measure, mangoes are my totems of a childhood spent in my maternal grandparent’s house (মামাবাড়ি (mama-bari) in Bengali) in Purnea, Bihar.
I spent a considerable part of my childhood in my mama-bari; living there during my kindergarten years and later, once we moved to Calcutta, spending a few weeks of every summer vacation there, until I joined college. My memories of the kindergarten years are vague and insubstantial. For the most part, they have bled into memories from when I was older, so now I can hardly envision a timeline of events. Instead, I have a medley of images and snippets of recollection, of things that may have occurred over many years but have now coalesced into one memory - tethered to summers, and mangoes.
The arrival of mangoes was the main act, the headline event, of the summers I spent at my mama-bari. They would come in cartons, packed with straw, from the orchards on the outskirts of town. The cartons would be opened and the mangoes would be inspected to assess their ripeness, and then laid out on newspapers spread around the courtyard. The ones that were fully ripe would be soaked in a flat-bottomed vessel filled with water, with only a tiny portion of the skin peeking out of the water’s surface. In the evening, the soaked mangoes would be ready to consume after being cut into 3 parts - 2 slices from the sides and 1 piece comprising the pulp around the seed. This routine would be repeated ad nauseam and almost every meal for the rest of our stay would involve mangoes.
My mama-bari is now a thing of the past and so are the summers we spent there. But fate has conspired to ensure that cartons of mangoes still get delivered to me come summertime4. Mangoes of a different variety from a different orchard, and in a different decade in a different city. But mangoes, that still make me feel the way I did when I was a child. Mangoes that can, if only for a moment, enliven the past.
In fact, mythological stories involving mangoes are present in other religious traditions as well, but I got a little bored of researching all of them. It seemed more prudent to spend that time eating a mango.
The poem goes:
He visits my town once a year. He fills my mouth with kisses and nectar. I spend all my money on him. Who, girl, your man? No, a mango.
In reply, Narendra Modi confirmed he was fond of mangoes. A fact, that can hardly be held against the innocent fruit.
Thanks to my angelic father-in-law.
Great piece, loved reading it even though I am one of those people whom you are duty bound to mock and hate -:)
Just in case you haven't read it, 'A Case of Exploding Mangoes' by Mohammed Hanif - about a mango themed murder, or not! - will be well worth your time.
My son in law the author of yet another beautifully written piece shied away from giving credit to the Ratnagiri aapus that he has been gorging for some years. He also ignored giving credit to his "sasur bari" for sending those hay covered Fruit from Dapoli. But parents are known to ignore the errors of their children. So with a magnanimous heart I once again recommend all of you to read this wonderful piece