Estimated reading time: 5 minutes
Mangoes: The Soul of Summer
Every summer, the longing begins again—a quiet ache for the taste of mangoes from my mother’s garden in Vashi, New Bombay. Over four decades ago, she planted an Alphonso mango tree from a delicate seedling sourced from a nursery on the way to Mahabaleshwar. That tree now stands tall and venerable outside her home, still bending under the weight of golden Ratnagiri mangoes from mid-April to mid-June.
That tree wasn’t just a source of mangoes—it was the soul of our summers. All eyes would be on it when it flowered and the small green mangoes appeared. We worshipped the god of raw mangoes, for they symbolized the anticipation of sweetness to come. We walked around the tree, our eyes scaling the dark branches, counting each mango, watching the colors shift as they ripened.
Our wraparound veranda would come alive with their perfume. My mother transformed the harvest into sliced mangoes, chutneys, murabbas, spicy pickles, tangy mango squash, and double-churned mango ice cream—savoring every juicy bite of mango goodness. Neighbors dropped by, lured by the scent, and found themselves served mango panna, mango pastries, and endless hospitality.
My friends still recall how my mother always had something delicious on the dining table when they visited—pan-toasted bread with fresh clotted cream and a sprinkle of sugar, warm shakarparas, a slice of chocolate cake, and a chilled glass of Mangola or cool swig of thandai flavored with almonds, saffron, and cardamom. My dad would like to offer mango varieties he grew up eating: Safeda, Langra, Dasheri, and Chausa. He would come home from work with an assortment of mangos purchased from a fruit vendor parked outside the Swastik Chambers on Sion Trombay Road.
Mangoes by the Bay
Earlier this April, I was in San Ramon in the East Bay. Mangoes had just begun appearing at the Indian grocery stores. My daughter, part of a Bay Area mango enthusiasts group, gets minute-by-minute updates on shipments from India and mango tastings. I bought one Benishan—or Banganapalli—from Hyderabad because a friend from there swore it was better than Alphonso. I gave the freckled-skinned mango a try. It was decent, but it didn’t set my tastebuds alight. I kept my disappointment to myself and asked a young woman in San Ramon when Alphonsos would arrive.
By the time they did, we had left for Hawaii.
A Slice of Haden on Earth
In Maui, while exploring the farmers markets, we came across what looked like a village-style fruit mart in Kihei. There, glistening on a sun-drenched table, among beetroots, yams, spinach, and onions were a few Haden mangoes. They were fresh off the tree—plump, fragrant, with sap still oozing from their stems. At $6 apiece, they felt like precious jewels. We bought two.
We asked the manager, a German man who had settled in Maui, if he could wash them. “Are you going to eat the skin?” he countered. “No,” I replied, “but I still need them washed and cut.” He pointed us to a farmer of Polynesian descent nearby. The man hovered nearby with samples of potato salad and carrot cake, but we declined politely. When we asked if he could cut the mangoes, he asked for a $3 cutting fee. Already stunned by the mango’s price, we refused.
Instead, we found a plastic knife and sat at a makeshift table under the shade of a jacaranda tree, slicing through the firm skin. The mangoes were fleshy, sweet, and dripping with juice.
People watched us eat. Some smiled; others moved closer, curiosity piqued. Soon, the vendor’s mango sales began to climb. There’s something deeply satisfying about eating a mango with your hands, juice running down your fingers. It transported us to the veranda in Vashi, sitting on a handwoven palm-leaf mat, eating Alphonsos under the very tree that bore them.
Back in Atlanta, we spotted Haden mangoes again—this time at a supermarket. “Are these Haden?” I asked the cashier, drawn by their bright red-orange hue. “Yes,” he replied. “Fourteen for $6.99, only this weekend.” We couldn’t believe it. We bought two cases, ate them every day, made mango milkshakes with chia seeds, and shared them with friends. It felt like an unexpected gift—as if my mother, or her mango tree, had heard our hearts’ desire and answered our prayers.
Haden mangoes, for all their beauty and sweetness, thrive in Maui’s warm, dry air. But Alphonso mangoes are different—smaller, golden, intensely aromatic, and ripening earlier in the summer. Their flavor is layered: rich, tangy, almost perfumed. They don’t just satisfy the palate—they awaken it.
Alphonsos wrapped in memories
And yet, no matter how sweet, no store-bought mango can match the taste of the ones we grew up with. Because childhood memories are more vivid than life itself. The Alphonso mangoes from Vashi weren’t just fruit. They were gold—imbued with laughter, squeals of delight, sticky hands, shared stories, and fierce fights over the last piece. I remember the soft aura of my mother wrapped in her floral sari, handing us hedgehog-cut slices with a smile. They were summer in our hands.
Recently, I heard that nearly $500,000 worth of mangoes from Vashi were destroyed by U.S. customs because of paperwork. My heart sank. Somewhere in those crates, perhaps, were mangoes from trees like ours—trees rooted in love, tradition, and memory.
Now, my mother is no more. But the mango tree remains, tall and generous—like the brother I always wanted. It carries her gentle spirit of endless summers in its leaves. The house of my dreams stands quiet, but childhood memories still resonate—whether I’m awake or asleep.
Others now enjoy the bounty she left behind. As for us, we shop for mangoes at the supermarket. And every time, without fail, wherever our travels may take us in the world, we tell the cashier about our mango tree—the one planted by our mother’s loving hands.