Mangoes take me back to a remote village in India

For years, the first mangoes of the season have teleported me to a remote village in India, on the outskirts of Patna.

Surrounded by an orchard that runs into acres stands a lonely bungalow, accessible by only a narrow lane. As many as 12 children can be seeing sitting at the entrance in a circle around a large metal bucket. You can imagine what’s inside it. Mangoes! Plucked fresh from the orchard, the mangoes are first washed and then dumped into the cold water in the bucket. Then the feast begins.

The bucket has enough mangoes to last two weeks in an urban household. But in the village, under the baking sun, the children finish it all in less than an hour. When they are done, they run back to the orchard for more. The perks of living in a farm.

The memory remains fresh even after decades. Except it’s not mine, it’s my mother’s.

She has narrated this tale several times – during our annual summer vacations when we gathered at grandma’s house for two months, to my wife soon after we married, and to our kids.

My mother, of late, has been lamenting the lack of taste in the mangoes available in Delhi. The fruit in Dubai, she says, tastes better, but not as good as the ones from the orchard. She has tried several varieties here – Langra, Alphonso, Totapuri, Dashehri, Totapuri, Badami, Sindhri, Chausa. They fill up the stomach, but the soul yearns for more, she says.

A few years ago, while visiting some relatives, we drove past the bungalow.

The abode is now deserted, but it still stands. Creepers have found their way into it. The road has widened. The orchard has been reduced to a single line of trees, just to demarcate the plot of land from the adjacent parcels. The green grass of the forecourt lies buried under the cemented driveway.

The neighborhood no longer grows its own mangoes.

Another memory that has stayed with me is when I first saw everyone eat mangoes at grandma’s house. Most of them bit into the fruit straightaway, creating a small hole where the stem once was. Then they squeezed the pulp straight into their mouth. The slightly more sophisticated ones cleaved their mangoes into three parts, enjoying the fruit in tiny bites. I, meanwhile, repulsed by all the juice dribbling down the chin and fingers, scooped up the flesh with a spoon. Decades later, I still eat mangoes the same way.