Oh Mango, oh King of Fruit!

If I were a poet, I would compose a beautiful verse about the mango. But I’m not. I can’t even write a limerick. So I will say only this about the mango: it is my salvation. It is the only reason why life is worth living during these miserable months of heat and rain and dust storms. There are green mangoes and orange mangoes, ovular mangoes and apple-shaped mangoes, firm mangoes and squishy, soft mangoes (these you roll on a table, pop the top and squeeze into your mouth like you’re eating toothpaste). And all, after another stinking hot day, taste so heavenly divine that it seems almost sinful to enjoy a mango that much.

As India’s national fruit, Indians have their own love affair with mango, on display every year during the two day mango festival. An indoor stadium used for everything from wrestling to musical programs is transformed into a mango haven—mangoes lined along tables around the entire stadium from all over India. In the center were chefs from some of the finest restaurants in Delhi who were showcasing their mango creations: beautiful pastries and cakes, sushi, prawns, chicken with mango sauces, slices, or chutneys.

We exposed ourselves as foreigners when we snapped pictures in front of the mango table, which immediately caught the eye of one of the television reporters. She begged us for a live interview to get the foreigners’ perspective on Delhi’s annual mango festival:

Over-energetic reporter: So, what brought you to the mango festival?
Deadpan me: I’m American. We only get one type of mango. I wanted to see how many different kinds there were.
Reporter: Only one type of mango? Doesn’t it make you quite sad?
Me: It’s devastating.
Reporter: And what was your impression of the festival?
Me: There are a whole lot of mangoes in here.
Reporter: Now on to a more serious question. Given how fatty mangoes are, aren’t you worried that eating so many of them will make you fat?
Me: Excuse me? (trying to process the utter stupidity of the question)
Reporter: I said, aren’t you worried that mangoes will make you fat?
Me: Life’s too short? (damn! Should have thought of something more clever)

Oddly, we came away from the mango festival not having eaten a single mango—hundreds of varieties on display, but all you are allowed to do is too (quickly) ooh and aah as you are herded past each table by the guard with a loud whistle, which he uses quite liberally to remind us to moooooove. The whistle is hard to hear, though, over the thumping live electrical Punjabi music in the background, complete with the nasally-voiced woman ending each song with constantly undulating “Aaah. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah. Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhh.” (end drum beat).

But outside, is stall after stall with more varieties of achar (mango pickle) than exist even in my wildest imagination. Oooh, and they let us taste whichever ones we wanted—tart mangoes and sweet mangoes, some spicy, some sour, all with aromas so intoxicating that I looked like a drug addict trying to get high as I whiffed in the scents.

Mmmmm…mango. Oh king of fruit indeed. Without you, I would never survive an Indian summer.

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