In the village where I live, dozens of ripe mankurads hang outside every other house. The sunshine coloured mangoes look so inviting that they tempt even the most resolute passerby to reach for the fruit dangling across forbidden boundary walls. These mangoes that grow in abundance in Aldona, Goa, in the relentless month of May taste like happiness on an indifferent day. And with the mangoes ripening begins the congenial village ritual of friends and neighbours exchanging fruit from each other’s trees.
But the mango season here also reminds me of another summer, different in heat and taste but one that brought new and lasting loves into my life.
We were living back then in the national capital. The millennium had just ended, and we were heading into a dreaded Delhi summer.
Sunny entrance
In India, summer means many things but in the life of an 18- or 20-something student, summer signifies mostly one thing: a multitude of entrance examinations. May-June is the designated season of dread when one attempts to get into a college or university of one’s choice.
It was my summer of graduation and all my friends with employment-friendly courses were appearing for various exams. These would take them to cities outside Delhi, and to a world where salaries were discussed in figures that could put the Delhi real estate market to shame.
I was a mere literature student and, unlike some of my classmates, so mathematically challenged that even the probability of clearing the exams made me look at the skies with despair. But not wanting to be left behind, I too decided to try my hand at a couple of entrance exams — as a rite of passage, if you will.
A wet June
And so there I was, waiting on the streets of Mumbai for an autorickshaw on the first day of the monsoon.
Mumbai gets lashed by rains in June, a month that I, Delhi-bred, had grown up believing was meant, despite the occasional showers, to suck every desire out of the human body. But in Mumbai, I discovered a cool, wet June, a new month for the newly-minted graduate.
As my mother and I waited for my turn in a group discussion at an institute in Chembur, we watched the rain bring out a hundred shades of green on the campus. As lunchtime approached, the rains stopped and, as if on cue, an ice-cream cart appeared, offering vanilla cups for the nervous candidates.
We non-Mumbai candidates did not venture anywhere close to the cart, but the local girls quickly and eagerly bought the vanilla cups. They then proceeded to take out small tiffin boxes from their bags and promptly emptied the ice-cream into the contents of their boxes.
Photo: Getty Images/ iStock
Their faces transformed as they began to eat. Their snack was cubes of sweet mango brought from home, topped with vanilla ice-cream, a treat I had never tasted in that form till then.
In Bengali households, mangoes are often combined with milk, a grandmother’s treat we rebellious teenagers scorned. Or there’s the syrupy, sweet-sour, green mango chutney, deceptively called ambal (also the word for the Bengali’s famous acidity), which is a perfect ending to any meal.
Mad happiness
But on the steps of that Mumbai institute that day, while nothing of my per annum future was decided, my mother and I discovered the mad happiness that could overcome the dreariest days when vanilla ice-cream meets Alphonso mangoes. With one taste of this treat, Bombay changed for me. A perfect combination, a meal in itself, a duet of sunshine and snow perfect for any hour.
That week, between interview, group discussion and results, I trekked across homes, cafes and ice-cream parlours as a mango tourist, sampling and grading the best Alphonso and ice-cream combos. There was pure monsoon romance in devouring a Haji Ali mango cream by the windy Arabian sea.
By the end of the trip, I was hopelessly in love — with vanilla ice-cream and Hapuz, flavoured with a drizzle of Mumbai rain.
Back home, the magic of mango and ice-cream was not quite appreciated by my Bengali family, for whom the green mango ambal still ruled mealtimes. But that was just not sinful enough for me nor did it offer the allure of seaside romance.
By the time the summer ended, I had decided on a career and a city. It was one where summers would always be harsh and where it was lemon soda and falsa that would await exam-goers. The things I really desired were neatly packed in my memory cells because pragmatism had found me.
But come Delhi summers, I can still never stop wishing for Alphonso mangoes and ice-cream against a canvas of pouring rain.
SUNDAY RECIPE
Ripe mango chaatni
Photo: Getty Images/ iStock
INGREDIENTS:
7-8 ripe mangoes
A pinch mustard seeds
1 whole red chilli
Some sugar
METHOD :
1. Cut and slice a combination of hard and soft ripe mangoes.
2. Heat oil in a kadai. Add mustard seeds and the red chilli.
3. Add the firmer mango cubes first. Let them soften.
4. Add the mushy mangoes and let the whole mixture come together.
5. Stir in some sugar.
6. Simmer for about 10 minutes and turn off heat.
7. Cool and serve with or after meals.
The author teaches English literature at Delhi University. She also writes fiction and films and obsesses about her cats.
