They gave me a mango at breakfast in Chiang Mai, in northern Thailand, in the boutique hotel where I was staying. The mango was beautifully presented in Thai style: two halves on the plate with the seed removed. The halves were cut into even bite-sized slices. The mango was not too ripe but full of flavour. Each firm portion tasted identical to the last one, and I had to restrain myself from eating too quickly. The mango was mouth- wateringly delicious.
I would not have thought about it further, except that I had been in India the week before, attending wedding festivities. The contrast between mangoes in India and those in Thailand provided food for thought. You could say I had an epiphany. The Thai mango was much the same as I could have had in northern Australia, Mexico or the USA. It was better than I could get at home in Canberra in summer – a transport issue – but not excessively so.
In India, however, the mango was something else entirely. I had been in Hyderabad, in Andhra Pradesh – sedentary, pampered, at the height of the mango season. When the monsoon comes the mangoes get brown spots, ruining the flavour and abruptly ending the season. I have been coming to India since 1981, and since 2004 I have done volunteer work in Hyderabad for a couple of months each year. I normally come in winter, in custard-apple season.
Before I talk further about mangoes, I need to reveal some prejudices to explain why I am excited. Mangoes give me a glimmer of understanding of the enigma that is India – an understanding its food in general has not quite given me. Over the years, I have begun to grasp the incredible variety of food in India: the spices; the fruits and the vegetables that are available; the incredible numbers of trees and plants used in traditional Indian villages; and the genetic types still available that are beyond the ken of scientific agriculture.