Mango

A sort-of Indian upbringing has and always will be confusing, but I never feel more Indian than when it comes to elements of food. Even though I know I pronounce things with an accent that doesn’t make sense, and I’m too shy to speak much Hindi or Kannada to anyone outside my immediate family, I am an expert in choosing a good mango. There’s almost an art to it. From the moment the boxes of mangoes come through the door, they have set places around the house where they will be placed- on the floor under the counters in the kitchen (a cool, dark place). The most underripe go in the living room-turned Mumma’s office space next door to ripen in peace.

The box of mangoes is opened, and the hypnotising pattern of the packaging is revealed, often paired with newspaper lining the boxes to reduce impact. The netting of most of them is removed and will be put back later. First, they will be sorted, from most to least ripe. Each fruit is handled with care and a reverence that understands the quiet wealth they carry in their rarity. Their sweet aroma fills the kitchen, the riper the mango the stronger the scent. Deep inhales are heard as everyone observes the colour of each mango, and a gentle finger is pressed into some to assess how much give the flesh of the fruit has.

The most ripe mangoes are placed in the box that goes in the kitchen and our temptation to indulge suddenly gives in. We run to get a t-shirt that can get messy. Sometimes it’s a different t-shirt each season- when I was a kid I had a designated mango t-shirt that would inevitably be stained with the golden orange juice of my favourite fruit. The chopping board comes out, often lightly stained with that familiar orange hue, and an appropriate knife is selected. The first slice reveals the temperament of the mango: is it slightly underripe, bruised, mouldy- or a perfectly warm orange, juices brimming and begging to come out? Depending on desperation, the mangoes are either eaten as they’re cut or they’re placed on a plate to be enjoyed when settled. Often, it is the former. Juices drip, from our hands to our elbows, from our mouths to our necks- it’s almost primitive. The stone is always the last thing to be eaten, and every bit of flesh is expertly removed with our teeth, savouring every last bit until we let out a sweet sigh, bellies, souls and hearts content. We laugh at our manic love for the fruit, and squabble over who had more (it’s always me. I’m an only child through and through).