So who died and crowned Alphonso king? I ponder over this every summer. I guess it is finally time to rediff-ine the issue. India is the primary producer of mangoes and there are hundreds of varieties of the fruit -- just like there are so many languages, but one gets called the 'national' language. 'Indisputable', 'internationally acknowledged', etc are the words used to proclaim the superior status of Alphonso mangoes grown in and around the state of Maharashtra. What's with this people? And since when did we allow outsiders to settle any of our disputes anyway? Brash Bombayites and pretenders to haute-eating pass this opinion around like a fact at my dinner table. It is peerless and other mangoes can't be spoken about in the same breath. Being a gracious hostess, I have murmured my protests inaudibly all these years. No more. Do you accept this with equanimity, Langda-, Dussheri-, Safda-, Malgova- Rumani-eaters? I don't. As far as I am concerned, Banganapalle rules. Go ahead, ask what kind of unpronounceable Madrasi name is that? Or the Kili-mukku? This breed is mostly parrot-green, with a red blush where the fruit curves, just so, like the bird's beak. When it is naturally ripened in sacks of rice, the flesh within turns a succulent gold. Sheer gustatory gold. And so it is with every one of the other local varieties, I am sure. For those who are now removed from subzi mandis and monsoon showers, mango season is that time of the year when little ads start popping up on all desi Web sites: "Gift mangoes to friends and loved ones anywhere in the world," the ads urge you. 'Anywhere' in the world means most countries in Europe and Asia: Middle East, Far & Southeast and Canada. That is plenty of ground covered, but I am not impressed because I am now in America. The United States Department of Agriculture bans import of fresh fruit from India. The USDA puts beagles -- cute little snoopy dogs -- through a training programme at the end of which they earn a green vest and get to work. This diligent brigade can sniff out any forbidden agricultural or meat produce from the airline baggage and those redolent packages will end up in the refuse bin right in front of you. That's harrowing enough to make grown people cry. There is no hope in hell of sneaking any forbidden fruits past the customs, if the idea has occurred to you. I have this bad case of nostalgia. Bittersweet memories. I am in the mood for a mango shake. I can't lay my hands on the real thing -- mangifera indica grown in India. Rather than settle for some flaccid South American import at the ethnic grocer's, which has been sitting in cold storage for weeks on end, I reach out for the tinned pulp at the desi store. It has only been sitting out on the shelf for months now. There is no telltale date of manufacture to give it away. How old is it? Your guess is as good as mine. I could read all the labels as closely as I please. There is just one variety of tinned pulp available in the store -- Alphonso. I proceed to the checkout counter. Can we have an academic debate on this in keeping with the democratic traditions of the land? Better still, since we are a democracy, can we skip this whole 'king' business? Vijaysree Venkatraman will stop only after she dethrones Alphonso. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary
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