If Kerala is God’s Own Country, then the mango is God’s Own Fruit. We get exotic fruit here in the US - kiwi, peach, plum, strawberry et al but nothing comes quite close to the magnificent Mangifera indica in aroma, flavour and taste. The mangoes that we do normally get here are poor cousins from South America with insipid taste and mediocre flavour. Luckily for us, the ban on the import of Indian mangoes has been lifted. As I shop for mangoes, I reminisce about the mango season back home in India. It’s now Mambazhakkalam*, the season of the king of fruits. Staying on foreign shores, I can very well visualize the markets back home and the deluge of mangoes.

Mambazhakkalam also reminds me of the summer vacations spent at grandparents’ house. The memories of those sunny, glorious, summer days of endless fun and digging into luscious mangoes are evergreen. As the mango season progressed, the mango trees would be laden with ripe mangoes, intensely sweet and with just about a tinge of sourness. It would be mangoes galore and practically every meal during this season would contain a dish made with mangoes.

Come summer, we eagerly looked forward to the train journey to dad’s ancestral home in Kerala. The house had a big thodi (compound/yard) around it teeming with coconut, jackfruit, papaya and tamarind trees. Amidst them stood a lone mango tree by the gate, greeting us as we entered the yard and beckoning us to pluck and taste its succulent fruit.

As children we could barely contain our excitement on seeing the golden fruit hanging from the trees. It wasn’t that we hadn’t seen mangoes at all, but to see them dangling from the trees – that was something special. On waking up in the mornings, we would rush to the front yard to pick the mangoes fallen on the ground the previous night. It was like a gold rush. Yes, all that glitters is not gold; some are more precious – mangoes!

Lunch was usually at mid-morning. A simple affair, almost every meal included tender pickled mangoes, pappadams, and a mango dish, washed off with curd rice. The curd rice was prepared using pazhaya saatham (left over rice). Grandma would soak the left over rice in a kachatti (kal chatti – stoneware) the previous night. At lunch, she would drain the water, mix the rice with fresh curd, roll the rice into small balls and top them with pickle (made of what else but mangoes!) We would sit in a semi-circle on the floor (we didn’t have dining table those days) and hold out our palms for our share of the rice balls. Grandma’s culinary skills made us eat out of her hands, literally!

The brunch would be polished off with the mangoes picked earlier in the morning. It was sinfully delightful, how the mangoes transformed even a simple meal into a delicious feast.

I’m reminded of a saying in Malayalam:

Kanni maanga karingaalan
Kanalil Chutta pappadam
Kaachiya morumundengil

Kaanaam ooninde vaibhavam

(Tender pickled mangoes, coconut gravy

Charcoal-roasted pappads

And Buttermilk gravy

All add upto a sumptuous feast)

Lunch over; it’s time for fun and frolic. Since the mango tree was near the gate, half of it was over the compound wall into the street. It was easy prey for street urchins and vagabonds who took great thrill in felling its fruit. We took it upon ourselves to guard the tree against unwanted incursions. So the afternoons were spent on the sandy soil under its shade, reading, chatting and chasing the urchins away. The reward for being as good as gold was golden mangoes handpicked by grandpa. More mangoes!

After his siesta, grandpa would come with a long bamboo pole and pluck the fruits for us. Nothing could beat the unbridled pleasure of sinking our teeth into the succulent flesh, the juice dribbling down our chins, hands and arms, and licking our fingers in ecstasy. The one to get the seed was considered very lucky (or if you may say, licky!) The mangoes were worth their worth in gold, the pleasurable wait only adding to the weight.

Although we had the innate urge to monkey around, we never climbed trees or pelted stones. Maybe we weren’t used to it. Maybe it was because of grandpa’s stern nature. 

By evening, the front yard would be littered with mango flowers. The intoxicating smell of the mango flowers - a heady cross between jasmine and lily, would come wafting in, soothing our senses and lulling us into sleep.

And if we ever got bored, we only had to board the next available bus to go to Mom’s house. Accompanied by dad and mom and imbuing the sights and sounds en route, the bus journey was more enchanting than the train journey.

Unlike dad’s house that was in the town, mom’s house was different. Framed by the Sahyadris in the East and by paddy fields all around, an open well in the front yard and a pond in the backyard, it was an otta madom (single house) in a truly rural setting.  And the house had not one, but several mango trees - the small and sweet Chandrakkaran, the Moovandan, the Kilichundan and the Neelam, to name a few.

Once on her own turf, mom would become a little girl herself, the transformation almost instantaneous. She was always the first one to pick a couple of stones and start her slingshot practice. Ripe mangoes, raw mangoes – all were fair game for her. The mangoes duly picked and cursorily washed, we would sit on the verandah or by the pond, spread our wares on a piece of old newspaper (from grandma’s special stock for occasions like these) and enjoy them to our heart’s content. Bliss! The rest of the afternoon would be spent swinging on the tamarind tree by the pond.

Our summer vacations were ephemeral – like the mangoes – their season lasting only for a brief period. Dad’s house has undergone many renovations and facelifts over the years. It’s hardly recognizable now from its old form. But mom’s house is the same as it was three decades ago. The mango trees still stand; reminding us of our childhood; waiting for the next generation to come and make their own memories. Mango memories - seeded in the dusty fields of the mind, harvested with tender care, and pickled with love for posterity. And like the pickle, the passing years only enhance the beauty and flavour of these memories.

Glossary:

• Mambazhakkalam - Mango season
• Thodi - Compound/yard
• Pappadams - Papads
• Pazhaya saatham - Left over rice
• Kachatti - Stoneware vessel
• Kanni maanga - Tender mango pickled in salt
• Karingalan - Coconut gravy
• Kanalil chutta pappadam - Papad roasted in charcoal embers
• Kachiya moru - Buttermilk gravy
• Sahyadris - Western Ghats
• Otta Madom - Single house
• Chandrakkaran, Moovandan, Kilichundan, Neelam - Varieties of mangoes

 

Featured by Sulekha