Mango Memories
Growing up in the warm, sun-drenched lands of South Tamil Nadu, India, mangoes were not just a fruit for me — they were an essential part of my childhood narrative, intertwined with memories of summer holidays, carefree play, and familial love. Today, thousands of miles away from India, as I chop the first mango of the season — a Tommy Atkins cultivar, conveniently purchased at a neighborhood Costco, and take the first bite of the fruit, I am not just swallowing the fleshy fibrous fruit labeled “M-A-N-G-O” and sold at a reasonable price, I am also swallowing the craving I have for genuinely tasty (and dare I say “real” ?) mangoes. Having lived in the US for more than 25 years now, every mango I consume attempts to transport me back to those golden days, despite never letting me capture the magic completely.
The humble mango, often hailed as the “king of fruits,” holds a treasure trove of memories for those of us who grew up anywhere in India, particularly in scorching summers which coincide with the mango season. Growing up in South Tamil Nadu was not so different although the cultivars one got to taste back then was largely dependent on one’s geography. My childhood in Tirunelveli was drenched in golden hues of mango-laden summers, a time when the anticipation for summer holidays was sweetened by the onset of the mango season stretching from February to June, with the peak season being in April and May.
Backyard and Beyond
My most cherished mango memories are intertwined with the yearly ritual brought forth by my late grandfather, through an implicit pact he had with two or three of his patients who owned vast stretches of mango orchards nearby.
Each season, as the climate changed from being hot to hotter to hottest, and at the dawn of the mango season, we were gifted with at least one full sack of mangoes. This was often followed by another sack towards the season’s end. Imagine, if you will, each sack brimming with at least 200 mangoes. Some ripe and some unripe. But all spread out in the storeroom for easy access and sorted in the order of their ripe condition. The house would smell of mangoes from afar and there was nothing one could do to get rid of the mango aroma. Not that anyone really wanted to. After enduring hours under the sun, playing cricket, the pure, unbridled joy of sinking my teeth into a ripe mango is a feeling that I could write sonnets about.
Being seasonal, eating mangoes was always more than just about the fruit; it was an experience — a marriage of taste and aroma that rejuvenated the body and soul. The ritual of sucking on the juicy flesh, hands gleefully smeared in pulpy remnants, remains etched in my memory — an embodiment of pure, unadulterated joy. To me, and likely to every child who grew up in India with memories of mango-laden summers, mangoes were a sempiternal delight that eclipsed mere taste.
I have visited a few mango orchards (மாந்தோப்பு, Maanthoppu in Thamizh) and was always mesmerized by the probability of it all. How could such a sprawl of mango trees produce what seemed like infinite number of mangoes?
Our backyard harbored a lone mango tree, a silent spectator that never flowered throughout my childhood. The relatively younger mango tree was considered special in our backyard among the array of older coconut trees, all of which produced plenty of coconuts throughout the year. The mango tree was reserved only for its abundant supply of leaves during auspicious occasions and we were often sharing these leaves with a constant stream of neighbors who would pop into our house on such occasions. The lone mango tree stood as a poignant symbol of hope. Strikingly, the year I relocated to the U.S. marked the beginning of its bloom — a poetic turn that life often takes.
Flourishing with hundreds of mangoes each season, it has morphed into a beacon of generosity in recent years, yielding much more mangoes than what my parents could possibly share, spreading delight far beyond our household walls. Yet, the subsequent passing of my father towards the end of last year’s mango season and the temporary emptying of our family home leave the tree’s future — or I should say, our family’s future care for that tree, shrouded in uncanny uncertainty — a poignant reminder of the subliminal nature of life and the steadfastness of our mango tree.
Although we had access to some of the premium cultivars like Banganapalle and Alphonso, growing up — they were only an occasional treat. Truly reserved for a special day or a special mood. Tamil Nadu’s mangoes during the season ranged from everyday delights of Neelum and Malgova, to the vibrantly hued Sindhoora and Kilimookku (Totapuri). All these names evoke a sensory ballet of flavors and aromas exclusive to certain regions in India. However, after moving to the U.S., the more kaleidoscopic of mango varieties like Bangalora, Dashehari, Ratna, Kesar, Hapus, Imam Pasand and many more that are quite popular across the country remain a distant dream, as I don’t cross paths with them at the regular produce aisles in the USA.
These cultivars — these names are not just varietals; they are vestiges of times when joy was measured in mouthfuls of mangoes.
These days, one could remotely attempt to replicate the experience here in the US, by ordering a dozen Banganapalle mangoes priced at a steep $200 (imported from India), but it is not the same. It never will be. It’s not about the taste — it’s the essence of the experience that’s missing. The mango season in India was more than just about the fruit; it was about community, childhood bliss, and the pure, unadulterated joy found in nature’s gifts.
Here, in my American life, I often settle for a Tommy Atkins or an Ataulfo mango — yes, the Tommy Atkins is a bit too fibrous, and perhaps the long shelf life is its only advantage. But the taste? It’s merely a shade of what mangoes meant to me. And yes, the Ataulfo, is a sweeter alternative. But it still doesn’t quite bridge the gap between the mango experiences of my youth and my adult life in the US.
I am relentless in my pursuit for mangoes though. The mango, in its simplicity, transcends geographical boundaries, becoming a symbol of heritage and nostalgia for many of us away from India. So, I march on. And I continue to buy mangoes as long the season lasts. Because I know each bite is a reminder of what mangoes once meant to me, and a recognition of what they still represent — a connection to my roots, a taste of home, and the realization that some memories, just like the finest mangoes, only grow sweeter with time. In every mango I taste, I find a piece of my once home and the familial connections, a gustatory bridge that connects my past with my present. It is a reminder that while I may have crossed oceans and navigated through different cultures, the taste of a mango — a true, Indian mango — holds the power to momentarily transport me back to my roots, to the warmth of summer holidays filled with joy, cricket, and boundless mango feasts.
