My darling Gujju friends are brilliant in so many different ways, but one thing that showcased their genius last week was the agenda of the Gujarati Society AGM.
Guess what was on it that assured full attendance? Lunch with AamRas as the star attraction on the menu.
My brain, which usually challenges every proposition, threw in the towel in an effort to propel us into lunch ASAP. It could not help itself. It could not fight the Indian gene in me that hankered desperately for that first taste of this mango gastronomical extravaganza.
The mango season had arrived, and it showed up at the AGM like a celebrity at an awards function – dramatic, expensive, disruptive and fully aware of its status – “ My name is Alphonso, the King. And I’ll leave it at that!”
I mean, it was not just me. He was on everyone’s lips. They spoke about the mango king with reverence reserved for classical musicians, spiritual leaders and IPL MVPs while popping every known diabetes drug dished out by their cardiologists.
Every year, around April, the entire Indian diaspora goes a bit “chakram” – you know, cuckoo about the Alphonso’s impending arrival.
WhatsApp groups suddenly become intelligence networks:
“Have they arrived?”
“Which shop has the good stock?”
“Ratnagiri or Devgad?”
“How much per box?”
“Too early. Don’t buy now. These are chemical fellows.”
You would think we were discussing narcotics.
At Changi Airport during mango season, the luggage belt becomes a deeply emotional place for Indians. With typical Changi efficiency, even before the passengers emerge, the mango boxes appear – those glorious blue-and-yellow cartons wobbling nobly down the conveyor belt like they’ve completed a sacred pilgrimage.
The stampede to the carousel is mind-bending. The yells “That is Mine! That is Mine!” take the decibel level in the arrival hall to AR Rahman concert levels.
Establishing ownership rights is critical as paranoia grips you that your carefully curated box of Alphonsos will be nicked by some master criminal masquerading as a fellow passenger.
Your own suitcase is ignored as it circumvents the carousel for the fourth time while members of the family are placed at strategic points like spotters at a shikhar.
I mean, you have to empathise with them. Travelling during mango season is like organising military logistics. Relatives travelling from India were less guests and more fruit couriers.
Before every flight came the interrogation:
“How many kilos allowed?”
“Cabin baggage also can no?”
“Wrap properly.”
“Don’t keep near the feet.”
“Customs will ask? Don’t look nervous.”
Poor unsuspecting travellers carry mangoes with the stress level of international diamond smugglers.
When the box finally arrives, there’s a whole ceremony. Really, no fruit in the history of civilisation has enjoyed this level of emotional management.
The mangoes are unpacked gently, inspected individually, then laid out on newspaper like recovering aristocrats. We are forbidden to touch them because apparently mangoes need “air circulation”, “warmth”, and “time to develop character”.
Then begins the daily checking ritual. Every Indian mother develops supernatural expertise in mango ripeness. She presses one gently near the stem and announces things no ordinary human can detect. “Tomorrow evening. This one will be ready.”
How? What internal conversation are mothers having with mangoes?
Meanwhile, the rest of the family lurks around the dining table like emotionally unstable vultures. And then – finally – the King is ready.
Now here is where Indians separate themselves from the rest of humanity. We don’t eat mangoes like other cultures, we experience them.
No no no, the Alphonso is not sliced delicately into minimalist cubes for a European breakfast plate. Absolutely not. We attack it with demonic devotion. Juice down the elbows. Sticky fingers. Face destroyed. Dignity abandoned, making noises usually associated with vacuum cleaners.
This is not elegant eating. It’s a spiritual catharsis.
And the dishes! Dear God, the dishes. We don’t look at a mango and say, “it’s a fruit, let’s keep it that way”. No, we go nuts. During season, the Alphonso colonises every plate of food consumed.
We make aamras, mango pickle, mango curry, mango dal, mango rice, mango shrikhand, mango kulfi, mango lassi, mango chutney, mango papad, mango milkshake, mango pacchadi... I’m surprised we don’t also cook the box they arrived in.
Dinner conversations are transformed over the three Alphonso season months. Because let’s face it, for a certain crowd, mangoes are essentially edible luxury handbags.
“We got the first batch”. How do you respond to that? “Oh, did you? Should parliament be informed?”
“I tell you, my friend gifted me this box of the biggest jumbo size, private orchard, tree-ripened mangoes. They are to die for.” And you say to yourself, “Oh ya? Your poor friend went bankrupt, and you pick up your box, like everyone else, off the Changi Airport carousel.”
“I don’t like these mangoes from the local Indian stores. Mine are handpicked by my mother’s uncle in Ratnagiri – see not a blemish on them.” And you mumble in return: “Yes, each one looks like it has its own private dermatologist.”
“The size of the mangoes here are so small. I think the big export quality variety go straight to Dubai!”
You can complain all you want, but the Indians love their mangoes so much. The Indian High Commission even organised a successful Mango festival here.
And yet, despite all this devotion, every Indian above forty now says the same thing every season: “The taste is not the same anymore.” I don’t know whether that is true or just a play out of our memories of a relationship that has changed.
As children, we waited for mango season with unbearable excitement because waiting itself was part of the pleasure. Summer holidays stretched endlessly. Ceiling fans whirred lazily. Steel bowls sat in buckets of water cooling mangoes naturally.
Mothers shouted from kitchens. Grandparents argued about varieties as though discussing constitutional law.
The first mango of the season was placed at the feet of God as prasad. It felt earned.
And perhaps that is why Indians remain obsessed with the Alphonso. Because for one brief season every year, the King reminds us who we used to be.
Sticky-handed children.
Waiting near a newspaper-lined table.
And then you hear your mother saying carefully: “Don’t touch these yet, they are still ripening”.
Hoping tomorrow will finally be the day the mangoes are ready.
