Aam Sutra...!

Aam Sutra

Summer of 1989 was a special summer like all other summers in our young lives. The parched land on fire coupled with the radiation from the hills, the tourists that gathered there like a swarm of bees, the open gutter in front of the temple and routine twelve hour power cuts did not succeed in crushing our enthusiasm to visit our grandparents who lived in Tirupati. Every summer my mother and her sisters paid a visit to paati and thaatha and we needed no invitation to tag along. Those summers were definitely the best days of our life.

My earliest memories of mangoes can be traced back to this summer. The house that my grandparents lived in, was made out of rosewood and my great grandfather bought it from a ‘Deewaan family’ that could trace its lineage to the times of Krishnadevaraya. The living area in the ground floor was left untouched and the subsequent generations had built the first floor in which my grandparents lived. It had a hall, two huge rooms and a spacious kitchen and it opened out into a ‘pekadai ’, a terrace garden.

The dinner under the star studded sky was the highlight of the day. Paati pampered us by indulging in our gastronomic fantasies. She is a fabulous cook and an even better raconteur. My cousins and I sat in a large circle and paati took her place in the centre. The first course was never the boring sambahar rice that we had back at our homes. Giggling at inane jokes, counting the buses that looked like golden stars in backdrop of the dark hills, looking for the resident ghost in the adjoining ‘bugga madam’ , the store house and listening to paati’s stories transformed dinner time into a magical world. Thaatha had a role to play in this as well. While paati sat in the centre, embarking on glorious tales of valour and pride, he did what he was best at. He mixed rice and ‘avaakai’ with a generous dash of ghee in a big bowl. Of course, it was a dish tad too spicy for little kids, but it was precisely this factor that made eating avakaai sadam a pleasurable experience.

My paternal grandparents did their bit to make our summers memorable as well. Thaatha loved mangoes. Every summer evening, we went along with him to the market to buy mangoes. Every inch of the make-shift market place behind an old SBI branch was filled with mangoes- raw green ones, plump golden ones, yellowish green ones and ripe orange ones. Thaatha revelled in the art of mango picking and bargaining. He was never satisfied till he found the right fruit. He always told us that firm, plump mangoes that give away to slight pressure are the best ones for immediate consumption, that never buy green mangoes under the illusion that it might ripen (sometimes they don’t), that the perfumed Rasapuris are a very tempting but they can be deceiving- they are either sweet and delicious or simply unpalatable and to avoid those with bruised or shrivelled skin. We filled our colourful jholas with mangoes that thaatha chose and sprinted home to claim our share. My mother was an expert ‘mango milk-shake maker’. She always tempted my cousin who wasn’t fond of mangoes with cold mango milkshake that tasted like ambrosia. The backyard that had a little garden was ear-marked as a mango eating zone. The pleasure that you get when you squeeze ripe succulent mangoes, with the juice squirting on your chin and clothes is unparallel to any dining experience.

Mangoes made their presence felt all through my childhood. My paati walked 3.5 kms everyday to deliver my lunch to school. I have vivid memories of having lunch on a stone bench around a mango tree. My friend and I gulped down a spoonful of rice and raced to the next mango tree and then came back for the next. We did this day-after-day for five years. We ate rasam rice with paapad, curd rice with pickle and a burger-like snack under this tree. The mango tree was our ‘adda’ at school. We spent hours under its shade studying for exams, taking reprieve from the hot sun and playing hide and seek. All the classes that were held under the mango tree were our favourite classes. I remember the bulbuls club that flourished under the mango tree. We spent early summer days reserving our mangoes and earned our right to aim at those mangoes when they were ripe. I always associate a feeling of “mango-ness” with sunny, carefree summer days coupled with an exhilarating feeling of being alive in the moment.

The monsoon season wasn’t without its share of mango charms. I took a school-auto to school every day. Surprisingly, I travelled for twelve years by the same auto and took the same route to school. I had my very own special window seat and got preferential treatment from the auto-uncle. He introduced us to the delights of ‘thothaapuri mavina hannu’, a variety of raw mango, popular in Karnataka. Every time he was late, he caught us playing in the rain on the playground, the poor man yelled his lungs off that it was an irresponsible act and so on, while we all hung our heads in shame. At the end of his stern lecture he always gave us goodies to eat. Cut thothapuris with salt and chilli powder always cheered us up.

In the summer of 1995, we decided that we were all grown up and our mothers had conned us into going to coming to Tirupati every year. This year we decided that we would gather at ‘kothhavalasa’, about forty kilometres from Vishakapattanam. It was our first experience of a village life. We had never been to a village before. We were extremely excited that we had landed in a place far away from civilization. The place lived up to our expectations and more. My Chitappa, my mother’s younger sister’s husband, headed the steel plant at Kothavalasa and he was looked upon as an important official, and more revered than the local panchayat head. The villagers decided to give us a rousing welcome by hosting a dance party. We wore our pretty clothes and carried handbags and sat on the front row expectantly to see some tribal dance. I’d like to clarify here that in 1995 we thought that villagers were synonymous with semi-tribals and hence our expectations were on those lines.

The dais was a wooden platform and it had no roof. The whole area was lit with hurricane lamps. This was the first night in our young lives we were up so late. The villagers came in and sat on the ground, we occupied the plastic chairs that were in place for us. The excitement, the heat, and the carnival atmosphere proved to be a heady combination. Just as people settled down they served us a special dish in a cup made out of leaves sewn together. The dish had whole thaati nungu (date palm) and Ratnagiri mangoes drenched with coconut water.

All of a sudden music blared from the speakers that seemed to be everywhere. The harsh jarring noise broke the queer silence of the hot, sweaty night. Half naked women sparingly covered in skimpy gold garments made out of sequins, danced to the record of some Telugu songs that we did not recognise. They were joined by merry men who carried a bottle of toddy, while our parents sat in stunned silence. We had never seen anything quite like this before. My cousin and I started dancing on the ground and the next thing I remember is that we were dragged home by our moms and uncles who were embarrassed about the whole affair. It was quite a night.

In Hindu mythology the mango tree occupies a special position. Its prominence in Hindu mythology and religious observance leaves no doubt as to its antiquity, while its economic importance in ancient times is suggested by one of the Sanskrit names, Aam, which has an alternative meaning of provisions or victuals.

Dymock, Warden, and Hooper (Pharmacographia Indica) give the following resume of its position in the intellectual life of the Hindus:

"The mango, in Sanskrit Amra, Chuta and Sahakara, is said to be a transformation of Prajapati (lord of creatures), an epithet in the Veda originally applied to Savitri, Soma, Tvashtri, Hirangagarbha, Indra, and Agni, but afterwards the name of a separate god presiding over procreation. (Manu. xii, 121.) In more recent hymns and Brahmanas Prajapati is identified with the universe.

"The tree provides one of the pancha-pallava or aggregate of five sprigs used in Hindu ceremonial, and its flowers are used in Shiva worship on the Shivaratri. It is also a favorite of the Indian poets. The flower is invoked in the sixth act of Sakuntala as one of the five arrows of Kamadeva. In the travels of the Buddhist pilgrims Fah-hien and Sung-yun (translated by Beal) a mango grove (Amravana) is mentioned which was presented by Amradarika to Buddha in order that he might use it as a place of repose. This Amradarika, a kind of Buddhic Magdalen, was the daughter of the mango tree. In the Indian story of Surya Bai) the daughter of the sun is represented as persecuted by a sorceress, to escape from whom she became a golden Lotus. The king fell in love with the flower, which was then burnt by the sorceress. From its ashes grew a mango tree, and the king fell in love first with its flower, and then with its fruit; when ripe the fruit fell to the ground, and from it emerged the daughter of the sun (Surya Bai), who was recognized by the prince as his long lost wife."

The entrances of ceremonial halls are always lined with ‘thoranas’ made from mango leaves and the sacrificial oil that is poured into the yagas and yagnas are poured with the aid of mango leaves. So, mango tree finds its relevance in our social lives through these rituals. In the past, pickle making was quite a social activity. It gave the women folk a reason to mingle. Neighbours, friends and relatives got together, brought their ingredients and made a variety of pickles while exchanging their stories and their wisdom. They never compromised on the ingredients. The ingredients that go into pickle making are very specific and of the highest quality. This ensures that the end product is tasty and lasts longer and also provides a great pleasure in being finicky about fine details that they go into making the pickles. The women folk are always proud of their pickle recipes and they have their own secret ingredients or stringent procedures that make it their signature preparation. The different mango pickle preparations include maavadu (tiny, tender green mango preparation) - just the aroma of this pickle preparation can make one long for curd rice and pickle and make you homesick (this applies to the die heart curd rice and pickle fans of course), aavakai, manga thokku (made out of grated raw mangoes), sweet mango pickle (raw mangoes cut into small pieces and pickled with jaggery) etc.

As I one grows up, the taste buds not only mature but also become very discerning and demanding. The mundane fails to please you and no ordinary food appeals to your heightened senses. I’ve always been partial to my paati’s mango preparations. They never fail to delight me. This special mango sambhar dish that she makes with small, ripe mangoes beats all the sambhar recipes hands down. Small ripe mangoes, coriander powder, curry leaves, turmeric, hing and jaggery make this sambhar a spicy, unbeatable concoction. This is served with plain white rice and paapadams.

Just the thought of food can stir up a gamut of mixed emotions. The associations with food are aplenty. It takes you on a vivid, giddy journey down the memory lane and heightens your senses. Food is replete with meanings far beyond the actual act of eating. Food encodes experiences that involve people, your surroundings, situations, circumstances and strengthens the notions that ‘we are what we eat and we are where we eat’. The act of cooking and eating is an intricate part of all our lives. I have always had more than just a fascination for mangoes. It reminds me of those sunny summer school holidays, of my grandparents, of the sweltering summer heat, of the sense of easy camaraderie with my cousins and most importantly laughter, joy and peace.