It’s that season again when our minds turn to rounded objects. Before you get a vuvuzela in your bonnet, we are not referring to the World Cup but that eternal battle of the aam aadmi that is on full swing at the moment. To those who take pride in the fruits of their labour, the vexing question that will remain unresolved for all time to come is which type of mango is the fairest in all the land. If you have the courage and a large life insurance, do venture an opinion at the next party you go to. The response is electrifying to witness. The chausa, no the langda, don’t be silly it is the alphonso, perish the thought it is the unnamed artisanal variety grown only on full moon nights. Yes, a right royal fruit fight is on your hands.
The more discerning will let on that they have savoured the forbidden fruit from across the border on account of sharing the same Swiss bank as Asif Zardari. The carefully cultivated philistine will say he prefers mango pulp and to hell with well-known varieties. But nothing, not even Cristiano Ronaldo’s bedroom eyes, evokes such passion, such gnashing of teeth as mango mania. It really is, I think, therefore, I aam. The cut and thrust of debate focuses on how best to slice the fruit, at an angle to the kernel, straight down the middle.
These maniacs refuse to let the subject go. Now we like this regal fruit as much as Akbar did when he set up shop in these parts. We admire the lyrical outbursts on the qualities of the mango. But do we think it is the nectar of the gods? Let’s aam and haw over that a bit, shall we?