Because there is so much to say about mangoes, it is difficult to write about them. Well known as the “king of all fruits” by J. W. Purseglove, the indigenous mango consumers who proudly recite the phrase are unable to concur on the finest variety. Even among members of the same family who grew up eating the same meals, there is still disagreement. Thus, it is not only a matter of Alphonso against Langda against Chaunsa; my mother praised Rataul, which is now almost impossible to find, while my father favored Dussehri.
(My kids, the poor ignorant Philistines, are unable to distinguish between them.) Varieties like Kesar and Hamam, which were unknown in Delhi until a few years ago, may now be found on every roadside pushcart. The provenance changes as well: all of a sudden, Safeda is no longer from Benares but rather from Andhra. It could be Telangana rather than Andhra if the seller understands the distinction. Aside from that, mangoes are eaten fresh as much as possible, as are all fruits that are plentiful in any location, and any that cannot be consumed fresh are used to make sweets, beverages, curries, and a variety of preserves, including pickles, chutneys, toffee, and canned or packaged pulp and juice.
And the King adored the mango tree that grew out of the ashes, with its gorgeous blossoms and fruit. Surya Bai then came out of the ripe fruit that had fallen to the ground, and the monarch identified her as his long-lost wife. Thus, mangoes represent not only the triumph of genuine love and monogamy, the metamorphosis of one beautiful thing into another, but also, in my food-centric view, the change of mangoes from fresh fruit to pickle and to dessert.
