We all know that there are two kinds of people in this world. Those who love mangoes and the others who pretend that they do not. However, nowhere is this fruity fanaticism more visible than in Delhi, India, where mango season is less a time of the year, and more a state of being.
Believe me, it’s true. Delhiites, already passionate about everything from politics to branded luxury, undergo a sort of collective transformation around May. Here, the mango season does not just arrive, it erupts, and then this fruit enthusiasm turns into a collective obsession.
Once the first mangoes hit the markets, the entire city descends into a delicious madness and, by the second week, it becomes a full-blown hysteria. People in South Delhi hold mango-tasting parties where the mangoes are described in wine-speak like: “This Alphonso has a bold aroma and a hint of citrus”, and so on.
Neighbours compare notes like seasoned fruit sommeliers and some even indulge in blind tastings. If you’re thinking wine tasting with mangoes – yes, exactly that, but with stickier fingers and louder expletives.
Also, all conversation at family dinners, work meetings or dentist’s office shifts to mango-related matters. “Have the Alphonsos come in yet? Are they sweet this year? Who’s your supplier?”
It is as if one was trading in fine diamonds, not a tropical fruit.
Nevertheless, mango season in Delhi is a cultural event which is more anticipated than the monsoon rain or new government policies because mangoes here are a symbol of prestige and status.
It does not matter if you dwell in a mansion or a modest apartment, but your Mangifera indica must come straight from Ratnagiri or Malihabad. Only then have you arrived.
People name-drop their fruit vendors the way others mention Michelin-star chefs. And there are whispers of reliable sources or remote cousins who smuggle several dozen from a vacation and hoard the ‘good stuff’ in their fridge, behind a wall of yoghurt containers or beer cans.
Meanwhile, my own relationship with mangoes is deeply emotional and entirely irrational. I don’t just like mangoes. I love them, I crave them, and I dream of them.
My earliest mango memory involves sitting on a long wooden dining table at my grandmother’s house, chomping down a pile of the golden fruit with a stern warning from the matriarch – that not eating enough mangoes would make my bones hollow. I never questioned the science but made it my life’s mission to remain structurally sound through heavy mango consumption.
Now, there are many ways to eat a mango. Some slice it elegantly, as if they are performing a minor surgery, while others scoop it out with a spoon, all civilised and neat.
Then there are those who bite right into it, juice dripping everywhere, hair sticking to their forehead, joy on their faces, relishing every bit of the immersive fruit therapy.
But there is no doubt that during the scorchingly hot summer months, the only reprieve comes from biting into a cold, ripe and soothing mango, whose sweet taste makes one forget, albeit briefly, that one is melting.
Mulling over it, I scooped some sliced mangoes into a small bowl this morning.
“Are you feeling alright?” asked my spouse.
“On top of the world,” I trilled.
“Such a tiny helping?” he questioned.
“Oh, that is for you,” I corrected him.
“And?” he eyed the mango mountain I had chopped.
“And this is for me,” I gulped blissfully.
