Bombay’s blistering summer months usher in the sweetest season: mango. Tyres leave imprints on softened roads, ceiling fans churn hot air, and certain petiyan (crates) begin to pile up – their contents sun-softened and urgently sweet. For a few, fleeting weeks, sweltering heat is quenched. Aunties descend upon Crawford Market to judiciously press ripest skins, trusted mango-wallas greet regulars, pairing finest fruit with each patron’s long-remembered tastes. There’s the rolling of flesh beneath fingers, the piercing of small holes to slurp the nectar within or the fierce competitions over the gutli (pit), teasing out every last honeyed strand from snagged stones.
And yet, India’s national fruit wasn’t always so sweet. 4000 years ago, long before sticky kulfis and silky lassis, mangoes were smaller, fibrous and a little sharper on the tongue. These sour ancestors took root in northeastern India, Bangladesh, and Myanmar. Over centuries, careful cultivation coaxed the fruit into sweetness – perhaps foremost during the Gupta Empire (320–550 CE), when mangoes found imperial acclaim. The fruit graced unfamiliar lips, from royal courts to countryside homes. It slipped into regularly recited poems, curious folklore and wondrous works of art – a rich, enduring tradition.
New varietals prospered, all with different uses and tastes. A cherished few now grow around Bombay, in the state of Maharashtra. Some are prized for their tartness when underripe and green: Totapuri, Rajapuri and Langra. Others, like Kesar and Pairi, are renowned for their smooth, sweet texture, ideal for making aamras (mango pulp). While certain mangoes become something else entirely. No longer a fruit alone, instead distinguished as a gift most precious.
