Under the Mango tree

The sun had barely crested the horizon when the power cut roused me from a restless slumber. The heat of the morning wrapped itself around me like an unwelcome embrace, the stillness of the air thick with humidity. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and I sighed in resignation—summer was officially here. The very word “summer” conjured images of an unrelenting sun, the kind that turned the streets into slow-moving rivers of heat. Afternoon hours would stretch lazily, sweltering under the blazing sky. And then there were the summer staples—the dreaded power cuts, the water shortages, and, of course, the greatest herald of all: the maambalam (mango).

In Tamil Nadu, mangoes aren’t just fruit; they’re the essence of the season. It’s as though the earth itself awakens when they arrive. Early mornings are no longer just about the sticky heat; they are about the first glimpses of vibrant yellow at the local markets. Suddenly, the city transforms. The sidewalks, once bustling with the usual vendors, are now flooded with piles of mangoes in every hue—greeny-yellow Kili Mooku (a variety of mango), sunlit Alphonso, and the deep, rich gold of Banganapalli. The air, thick with the intoxicating scent of ripe fruit, lures you in like a magnetic force. And somehow, no matter how much you try to resist, you always end up buying more than you planned for—well, at least in my household.

As the days wore on, I could feel the magic of summer creeping into my very being. The mango was more than just a fruit; it was a tradition. My childhood summers were painted with the golden hue of mangoes, the scent of their flesh clinging to the walls of my memories. I can still see my cousins running around the house, their faces stained with juice, arguing over who would get the biggest slice. All that quarrelling would dissolve the moment Amma brought out the plate of sliced mangoes. It’s strange, but even with all the other dishes spread across the dining table, the sweet aroma of mangoes was the only scent that lingered in the house. We would sit, wide-eyed, hoping that perhaps Amma, in her infinite grace, would spare us one more piece. Ah, the joy of those mango-stained summer days. 

But, as a child, the real treasure came with those post-exam pilgrimages to the roadside stalls. The heat of summer was always at its peak when we, in our sweaty, sunburned glory, would stumble upon the tiny stalls selling pachha maanga (green mango) slices.

The fruit would be dusted liberally with molaga podi (chili powder) and salt—tart, fiery, and utterly addictive. It was the ultimate reward after a long stretch of textbooks and exams. We’d devour those mango slices in record time, the heat of the spice and the tang of the fruit a welcome respite from the summer fatigue.

And then there was Aam Panna (raw mango juice). After a scorching afternoon playing under the relentless Tamil sun, the cooling, tangy concoction Amma made was nothing short of magic. The moment that chilled glass touched our lips, it felt as though the very essence of summer was being poured back into our tired bodies. The sweet-sour burst of raw mango, with just the right touch of jaggery (unrefined sugar) and a pinch of jeera (cumin), was like a rejuvenating embrace. It quenched your thirst and, at the same time, seemed to wash away the heat that clung to your skin. Who needs sunscreen when you've got a glass of Aam Panna to restore your soul, right?

But for all the zing of Aam Panna, nothing could rival the creamy bliss of a mango milkshake, a sip of summer in every drop. I remember the first time I tasted it in the narrow, bustling lanes of the town market. The sun had already begun its descent, casting long shadows over the worn-out pavement. The air was still thick with heat, but in the midst of it, we stumbled upon an old kaiyendhi bhavan (roadside stall) tucked away in a corner. It was here, in the middle of this vibrant madness, that my grandmother, with a twinkle in her eye, would say, "Juice kudikalama?" (Shall we get some juice?). Off we went, down the narrow alleyway, to a tiny, unassuming shop with only one item in bold letters on its menu: Mango milkshake.

It wasn’t the kind of place that invited Instagram photos or flattering reviews. No, this was a simple stall with peeling paint, a tin roof, and rickety wooden chairs. The kind of place where the aroma of frying snacks and sweet juices clung to the air like a memory. The man behind the counter, wearing a faded lungi (traditional wraparounds) and an old T-shirt, was blending the mangoes with such expertise that you could almost taste the joy in each swirl of the blender. 

The glasses were tall and overflowing with the smoothest, creamiest yellow drink you could imagine. Chunks of juicy mango floated atop, just waiting to be scooped into eager mouths. My cousins and I stood there, waiting, our faces flushed from the sun. When the milkshake was finally handed over—served in thick glass tumblers, topped with chunks of ripe, juicy mango—it felt like a celebration. The first sip, so creamy and full of flavor, hit like an instant moment of pure indulgence. I closed my eyes for a second, savoring the cool, velvety sweetness of the mangoes. It wasn’t just a drink. It was the taste of summer itself, wrapped up in a glass, and shared in the company of the bustling streets of our small town. 

And yet, despite the joy of that moment, I couldn’t finish my glass. It was too big for me then, too rich, but I refused to admit defeat. I struggled to finish it, my tiny hands wrapped around the glass, while my cousins laughed and cheered me on. By the time I downed the last bit, I was a bundle of contentment and exhaustion. The sweet, creamy mangoes had left me in a blissful stupor, so much so that I had to be carried back home on my grandmother’s shoulders, the taste of that milkshake still lingering on my tongue.

It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t perfect, but it was real. And that, in its purest form, was what made it so unforgettable.

As I look back on those summers, I realize that the mango is more than just a fruit in India—it is a symbol of life itself. It’s not just about the sweetness of the ripe ones or the tartness of the raw varieties. It’s about the way we eat them—spicy, tangy, sweet, or even pickled. And trust me, we leave no mango behind.

The leftover slices from breakfast would make their way into sambar (lentil curry) for lunch, and the raw mango would soon be turned into oorugai (pickle), its fiery tang adding a zing to every meal. But sometimes, Amma would try new dishes she’d heard about or read somewhere. Some worked wonders—like the sweet, velvety Aamras (mango pulp) served with puris. The raw mango rasam (spicy, tangy soup) I dreamt of cool, creamy mango kulfi (ice cream) or falooda (a sweet dessert with ice cream). Ah, the priorities of a child!

Now, as I reflect on those days, I realize how much love and care went into each dish. And, somehow, even the simplest ones seem like triumphs today. As the mango season nears, I find myself eager to relive those tastes, to stand in line at the market, and to fill my basket with the season’s golden treasures. Because no matter how many summers come and go, one thing is certain—summer isn’t summer without the magic of mangoes.

Story by Arthi P

Written by Athira Nair