Aam in the groves, khaas in writing

May in Ayemenem is a hot, brooding month. The days are long and humid. The river shrinks and black crows gorge on bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees.

The opening paragraph of Arundhuti Roy's God of Small Things summons the image of a sun-seared Kerala village—one that can stage the strange destiny of her twin protagonists. But slumped over a straw mat during summer vacations, all I could think of were the bright mangoes in still, dustgreen trees.

It took a few more summers of paperback guzzling to realise that I wasn't to be blamed for being caught up in the image. Indeed, it was put there for the purpose, as so many authors, before and after Roy, have put to task the unfailing allure of the tropical fruit to sex up, and often further their narrative.

In ancient texts, references to the fruit can be traced as far back as the Puranas, trickling down, 4th century onwards, into the works of poet-dramatist Kalidasa and linguist Panini. As with Kalidasa's play Abhijnanasakuntalam, classical Sanskrit literature is laden with images of fragrant mango groves where cuckoos and bees gather to relish the first swig of spring. Such is the seduction of the sun-coloured fruit, that even Kamadeva turns to his mango-blossom arrow to engineer desire.

Little wonder then, that fourteenth century Persian poet Amir Khusro crowned the mango as the "fairest fruit of Hindustan". Or that one Dr John Fryer, who travelled to Persia and India for the East India Company in the 1670-s, declared the fruit to be superior to "apples of Hesperides" and the "necatrine peach and apricot", his infatuation documented in Jane Grignson's Fruit Book.  It might be tempting to dismiss the descriptions as an exalted oriental obsession. But what about Ghalib's redolent odes to the fruit? Or Tagore's lyrical preoccupation with aam er monjori? (budding mango flowers)

Then there's Ruskin Bond, his innate Indianness colouring the description of Sita and Krishna devouring the last of their mangoes in Angry river.

They bit deep into the ripe fleshy mangoes, using their teeth to tear the skin away. The sweet juice trickled down their chins...Sita hadn't tasted a mango for over a year. For a few moments she forgot about the flood — all that mattered was the mango!

For others, the visual of village kids feasting on mangoes would bring to mind Apu and Durga's picnics in Bibhutibhushan Bandyopadhyay's Pather Panchali, young lips smarting with salt, mustard oil and irrelevant secrets. 

"The West was engaged in a romance with the mango, even before it tasted it," is how food writer Vikram Doctor explains the fruit's high reputation. Doctor believes that the coronation of Alphonso as "world's best mango" coincided with the coronation of King George VI in 1937, when the ideal for export variety sailed to historic glory from Bombay's Crawford Market to London's Convent Garden Market on a ship called S.S Ranchi. "It's not that there aren't better varieties—take for example the soft-skinned Imam Pasand—but the Alphonso's incredible shelf life gives it its international fame," he claims.

Was it the creamy Alphonso that EM Forster had in mind when, in his novel A Passage to India, Dr Aziz promises Mr Fielding "a lady with breasts like mangoes"? Seeing that Forster's spell encounters with India (in 1914 and 1920) predates the stardom of Alphonso, he could have been talking about any variety. And there are so many! Pairi and Banganpalli, jostling for an early arrival...the blush-cheeked Golapkhaas or the hasty Himsagar...Kesar Totapuri...Chaunsa, Langra, or Dasheri! The list, repickled to taste in different parts of the country, tends to overflow, like ras drizzling from Katrina Kaif's chin in the Slice Aamsutra ads.

"Mango love is messy. Months of yearning, and suddenly, you're basking in a sense of excess," says Swati Bhattacharya, former National Creative Director for JWT, the advertising agency that made Slice sexy. "The idea was to juxtapose Katrina's pristine beauty against the urgency of desire, epitomised by the mango." Besides desire, the mango channels a certain kingly glamour, an association seasonally rehashed for consumers products like perfume, (paisley print) textile, etc.

The king of fruits is also the centre of sultry innuendos in some local songs. Whether trading double-meanings in Lavani numbers like Kairee Padachi or Padala Piklaay Amba, or serenading the Vadvali bride with Amba baay laaila laaila on her wedding day, the mango is a nudge, a wink, a hummable metaphor. Writer-Producer Bhushan Korgaonkar substantiates with lines from Aamba Totapuri, a popular Marathi song translated by filmmaker and fellow mangophile Paromita Vohra for his play Sangeet Bari.

How shall I describe these mangoes?
Perky, like parrots
No need to go crazy now!
They’re too big for your greedy hands
Look at you trying to grasp them somehow
What can I say
but come here -  and hey
Try this Totapari mango.

If you're cringing at the mango's smug omnipresence by now, you have company. A section of modern Indian authors writing in English have disowned the mango as a literary symbol. In an article called The maligned mango and other clichés writers fear, written for Forbes India by Nina Martyris, (May, 2015) novelist Rana Das Gupta roots for Indian-English writing to come out of "the welter of saree-and-mango novels". Salman Rushdie too, has advised authors against including tropical fruits in the title. "No mangoes, no guavas" is the rule. But while Rushdie might have banished mangoes from his titles, he could do nothing to stop Saleem from comparing his mother's rump to "a gigantic black Alphonso mango" in Midnight's Children.

Perhaps that's the thing about the mango. It is too juicy to be left alone. Too Indian to be subtle.