Mangoes and Poetry in India

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I had a hard time understanding most of what was said, and I wasn’t really familiar with the work of Ghalib. But none of these limitations seemed to matter—I was excited by the idea of eating mangoes. And soon enough, the readings were over. We proceeded to an inner courtyard.

Large, brightly colored plastic tubs of water filled with mangoes were lined up on long tables. After picking up plates and knives, most people seemed to know exactly which varieties they wanted, making a beeline for certain ones. A friend and I picked three varieties at random—a large green oblong type, and two smaller egg-shaped ones, green and yellow. The larger variety was the sweet and juicy, yet common, dussehri. The smaller green mango had a lighter, less sweet taste—it was even a bit flowery. The small yellow one, called safeda, is locally known as a juice-box mango. Without removing its skin, we rolled it in our hands, mashing the flesh inside to a pulp. After a minute of vigorous rolling it felt like a partially deflated water balloon. We broke off the fruit’s stem to reveal a small hole, to which we attached our lips, sucking out the thick juice until only the pit remained.

As we ate, I was struck by the near silence. People who had been so noisy during the readings were standing with plates heaped with mangoes, discarded skins, and pits, assiduously eating one piece of fruit after another.

Within an hour, abandoned plates were piled high, and the mango eaters were washing their hands at a sink near the courtyard’s edge. It was dark and just beginning to rain when we finally left. We walked through the festively lit streets, got into a cycle rickshaw, and set off for home.

Excerpted from Gastronomica(Summer 2008), a 2009 Utne Independent Press Award nominee for best writing and social/cultural coverage; www.gastronomica.org. Copyright © 2008 by the Regents of the University of California.

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