29-05-2025
- General
- New Indian Express
The mangoes of memory and monsoon
Think of Indian summers, and the mango appears—not merely as a fruit, but as memory incarnate. Ripe, golden, and sun-steeped, it arrives before the first bead of sweat glistens, just as spring exhales its final sigh. Across the subcontinent, the word aam begins to echo—softly at first, then swelling into a collective yearning that ripples through homes and histories alike.
In Delhi today, the monsoon is often synonymous with waterlogged roads, mosquito swarms and sweltering discomfort. Yet once, saawan ka maheena was idyllic—lush, languid, and dreamlike. Before Delhi's rapid urban sprawl took root, the city bore orchards of mangoes near Mehrauli, planted during the reign of Akbar Shah II. In those times, the love for mangoes flowed undisturbed—from royal gardens to humble courtyards, from the Mughals to modern-day families.
Long before the advent of television jingles or Instagram reels, the mango had already achieved mythic stature—immortalised in verse and royal memoirs. Amir Khusrow named it fakhr-e-gulshan—the pride of the garden. In the Ain-i-Akbari, Emperor Akbar extolled its virtues with the reverence reserved for a treasured confidante. Jahangir, ever the romantic, wrote with heartfelt candour in Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri that no other fruit pleased him more. But it is Mirza Ghalib who perhaps distilled the truth most simply and sweetly: 'Aamo mein bas do khoobiyaan honi chahiye—ek meethe ho aur bahut saare.' They must be sweet, and plentiful. What more could one ask?
