I bit again deep into the fleshiest portion of the Golden fruit. This was exactly as I liked it , textured with promise , color of indian summer, ripe with royal sweetness . Leaving me satiated yet craving for more.
My face did betray a mixture of disbelief and pleasure. How can it be so? I felt guilty enjoying the forbidden fruit in foreign shores. Yet here it was entire basket of kingly pleasure waiting for me, oddly named after my favorite childhood memorable book Heidi. Reverently, I apologised to the King at such a frivolous name! Then, at the next juicy slurpy bite it was clear as the first monsoon rain. This King was born to rule the palate. It couldn’t care less if it was named Alphonso, Langda, Chausa, Dussheri, Totapari, Banganapalli or now Heidi in this southern tip of Africa! Mango, or “Aam” in Hindi, the king of fruits aims only to please it’s loyal subjects.
I continue to miss India’s Mango season year after year and console myself with strawberry season. Secretly admonishing myself and attributing this loss as I do countless others to the NRI (non resident Indian) honeytrap. Undeniably it was overwhelming to finally enjoy these lovely variety of mangoes in African summer. Even if I was not spoilt for choices at least am not bereft of one.
I must confess to an underlying guilt. How could I enjoy these outside the land I come from? As some things are sacred and irreplaceable, Mango season in India is right on top of the list. Lately, I have been taking a lot of things off that list, named unsurprisingly The Nostalgia List. Maybe the world is shrinking or maybe my world is growing.