It’s that time of year again, when summer was all about mangoes in a bucketful of iced water, the mango pulp, trickling down your hands all the way to your elbows, the stickiness of it all as you slurped whatever syrupy sweetness you could lick off from around the edge of your lips, knowing full well, a thorough rinse with water was on the cards unless you wanted those white pimples to appear around your chin – the telltale signs you’d indulged, and in just the right spirit, with not one, not two, but even three or more of those Anwaratols (desi mango variety in Pakistan), that needed to be squeezed first just right, to gather the juicy goodness within, expelled all at once, straight onto the taste buds – yes the fruit flies sensed it too.
But you had to get to it first. The flies got the leftovers, from the discarded peel and oh yes, the prominent mango seed, fibrous, bright yellow and not to be left out of the party until every last drop was consumed – the most valuable player, they’d call it today.
And that, my friends, is how you devour a mango in summer. Do not let anyone tell you otherwise.
It was in a Mirza Ghalib adaptation, the 3 part television series that Naseer ud din Shah, essaying the great and witty poet Ghalib opined – “Koi gaddha hi hoga jo aam nahin khata” – ( you have to be a donkey if you don’t like mangoes!) on a repartee to his friend’s statement “Gaddhay aam nahi khaatay” – (Donkeys don’t eat mangoes). Not me, that’s Ghalib. I’m just repeating the famous lines, just like Oscar Wilde’s notorious quote: “The only way to overcome temptation is to give into to it.” – If Wilde had mangoes on his mind, so be it. I won’t judge him.
But the season is not just about mangoes. It marks the crucial summer months of 1947 when the subcontinent’s history was at a perilous crossroads – rather, covered in the goriest of bloodshed, tragedy, and mayhem. Nations are born with sacrifice, families dispersed over borders, children and women often the first victims of a displacement of which they have very little to do, or even comprehend.
But the trauma that brings forth the birth of a nation lives in the minds and hearts of its citizens years after, perhaps, forever.
It is also the time of year when our forefathers moved across borders to occupy a new homeland – they were tough times – and to date, so much has been written about this moment, the stories played out onscreen; in books, essays, articles and live talk shows, Facebook pages dedicated to a historical division of a land, stories from 1947 that till today, confound the people who inhabit both sides of the line.
It is said that the people who reside in both countries share more similarities than differences. That the birth of Pakistan and India from the battered womb of the subcontinent was the culmination of a messy British colonial era that turned friends to enemies – yeah, your typical Pakistani drama love story in reverse perhaps – but every year, people from both sides, these friends to enemies, (and back again till the cycle repeats itself), welcome the mango season just before they are reminded of August 1947. The sweetness of the mangoes perhaps, makes the memories of the month easier to swallow, but the wounds are often still raw, and the recent Pakistan-India war, just last year, made it all come back in a bizarre reality show – with all the drama and yes, a reality check for all those who wondered why we have two nations.
Aren’t we all one? We speak the same language, share the same recipes even eat the same food, wear the same clothes – sorry, where is the sari from? Or the gharara? Tung pajama you say, or peshwaz?
Get the drift?
But the final question – where are the mangoes from?
I’ll tell you. Listen closely though for the big reveal.
Last week I was at an Indian shop in Basel, my hometown in Switzerland, eyeing the box of mangoes at the checkout counter. There was an Indian lady eyeing the exact same box and we both asked the cashier about the mangoes.
I inquired: “ Are those Pakistani mangoes?” And she asked: “Are those Indian mangoes?” The guy manning te counter looked visibly perplexed with the double line of questioning, but after a thorough examination of the label and box, I won – Chaunsa all the way. Alphonso (the popular Indian variety) was out of season now, he explained.
”There’s six of them” I noted, in a conciliatory tone. “Do you want to share the box?” We can split 3 each.” The Indian lady now regarded the mangoes (not me hopefully), suspiciously. And proceeded to pick them up one by one, taking in the mango fragrance, non-committal about my offer though. In the end, she turned to me apologetically and said: “I’m sorry but I’d like to buy the whole box.”
While me, I’m just a chill girl, looked on at my neighbour appreciating Chaunsa from Pakistan wouldn’t dare refuse. I eyed a smaller box on the side with 3 mangoes and asked the shopkeeper, “Are those Pakistani too?”
”Yes,” he confirmed triumphantly, after inspection once more. “Okay then, I’ll take the 3,” I said.
And so it was. She got the bigger share of the mangoes, after checking each and every piece thoroughly, even swapping one that had turned a bit too ripe. I, on the other hand, picked up my share of the 3 mangoes and bid her happy mango-ing in summer.
It is summer of 2026 – not 1947. The mangoes had been divided and shared – 2 boxes, one large, one small. And we both seemed happy with our end of the bargain. Mangoes are easier to share than a piece of earth – but mangoes, after all, grow on the same earth.
My mind wandered off on a tangent as usual, but a logical one. If we can share mangoes grown on the same earth, then we can also share… get the drift?
And just like that, as I contemplated my ‘smaller share’ of mangoes, content they were Pakistani after all – not that I have anything against the Indian Alphonso, but you know how it is, expat Pakistani wearing mangoes as a badge of honour.
My smile, the smug one I feel coming when I see the “made in Pakistan FIFA football in the World cup” was just about to take over my mango sentiments when an Egyptian friend called me up last night and said: “Shazia, I have a box of Egyptian mangoes and they’re the best in the world. I’ve left them at your door step, a gift from my family to yours…”
Have you ever heard of Egyptian mangoes? I said to my Indian friend. And she shrugged. So did I.
Disclaimer: An earlier version of this article was first published on Substack by Shazia Saqib.
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