Mango delight

On my recent visit to India, the mango season was behind schedule. I was hoping that by the time I landed in the country, the luscious fruit would have made its unmistakable appearance. But some sudden April showers had slowed its arrival. Nature had not provided the relentless dry heat that was necessary for ripening the harvest and so the entire process was delayed. 

To say that I was disappointed is an understatement. Without resorting to hyperbole, I must admit that I was completely heartbroken, in every sense of the term. For a mango lover, this was a cruel blow from which I could not recover for the entire duration of my stay that was spread into one whole week. 

I had visualised myself gorging on the golden fruit. For breakfast, lunch and dinner. Sometimes, even with my morning and afternoon tea. Its aroma and sumptuous flavour was colouring my dreams. If I closed my eyes the thoughts went berserk and took me back to my childhood. 

My father was passionate about mangoes. Unlike other gentlemen of his generation who did the routine grocery shopping for their wives, my dad was clueless. He did not know where the sugar, eggs or washing powder came from. Maybe he thought my mother manufactured them in the kitchen like the jams and jellies she prepared. The amazing part was that he was not the least bit curious about it too. 

As long as the meals were presented on the dining table at the appropriate times, he was happy. But he made it a point to praise my mom’s cooking, unfailingly. Day after day he thanked her for the steaming platefuls of food that she rustled up. I remember the exact manner in which he expressed his gratitude. “Delicious!” he would exclaim. “Thank you for making my favourite dish,” he said. 

My siblings and I were fussy eaters but when our father looked at us expectantly, we nodded in agreement. Our mum would be delighted with all this appreciation and urged us to eat-up all the morsels scattered on our platter. 

But during mango season, she did not have to make any effort because both my brothers and I had inherited our father’s obsession with this juicy fruit. Throughout the hot summer months my father would drive to the overcrowded vegetable market and buy mangoes by the crateful. They were individually wrapped in shredded paper and nestled inside cardboard boxes. These would be stuffed into the boot of our tiny car, some spilling over the passenger seat. 

During mealtimes, dad sat at the head of the table and took over the task of slicing the mangoes. An entire pile of them would be placed at his elbow. Before chopping, he would hold up a succulent one and ask us if we wanted the side or the centre seed. This was a trick he played with us children. If we asked for the former, he would cut up the mango in such a way that he kept the fleshy part for himself. If we wanted the seed, he skinned the seed before handing it to us. 

“I will have a side piece please,” I requested once. 

“A side order coming up,” my father said preparing to pass me a thin strip. 

“Actually I will have the seed,” I said, confusing him. 

“Oh! But that’s mine,” he twinkled. 

“I’m also yours,” I retorted. 

“Fair enough,” he laughed.

“Game up,” I laughed back.