Ever since I brought the Dasehris and Alphonsoes (some twenty dozens of them) home my college-going daughter has been complaining.
‘Baba that’s enough of it.’
When the harvest arrived home the mangoes had not ripened but as the days went by the fruit’s colour changed, from green to bright saffron yellow. Ever since then my daughter has been camping in the drawing room, rarely venturing into the bed rooms.
She has very right to complain. The floors of the bed rooms have been taken over by the mangoes, spread on newspaper sheets, the aroma of the ripening fruits rising and abducting the airspace. Its smell reminding me of my childhood days spent in our ancestral home during our annual summer holidays. Most of the rooms, we had just three, had mangoes spread below the cots. In fact, the mangoes were everywhere. In the courtyard. In the kitchen and also stocked in the wooden cupboards on the walls. You couldn’t escape them. Those were the days when we gorged on the sunshine fruits: mornings to evenings.
Ages later the smell of ripening mangoes has entered our lives, again.
So that we can sleep minus the smell of ripening mangoes entering our nostrils, come night we move the mangoes to the drawing rooms. This has been going on two weeks now.
‘Baba we had enough of it.“
Everyday wifey religiously counts the mangoes left to consume as I distribute my maiden harvest among friends and colleagues. Every morning I leave home with paper or cloth bags full of mangoes to deliver it to those who value Dasheris. Most Mumbaikar I have come across do not have a kind word for Dasheris, spoilt as they are by Hapus.
NOTE: Its so simple but never occurred to me. Pluck mangoes with a bit of stem intact. If you don’t the oozing sap will flow on the fruit leaving a stain which is difficult wipe off, once the fruit has ripened.