Mangoes

are depressing. Because I live in a country where the stores are filled with things that look like Mangoes, but are imposters inside. From the Cote d'Ivoire. And the South American ones are even worse: with thick reddish green skins and fibrous hard stuff inside.

Last year I ate just one mango. The Mango came from a Bangladeshi shop on the outskirts of Milan, and was a gift from a shop keeper who said I looked like his Tamilian girlfriend from 10 years ago. I wasn't sure where that conversation was going so I took the Mango and escaped. It was bigger than an Alphonso, but didn't taste like a Banganapalli. Whatever it was, it was very very good. And it was the only one.

This year when my mother visited me she brought me 3 Malgovas and 2 Banganapallis. Banganapalli is my favourite kind of Mango. I ate one a day at dinner for the next 5 days. And then they were gone.

This week, on my way to the library I found a Turkish woman selling Alphonso mangoes. They will little but they looked lovely. And so for the hideous sum of Rs 130 per mango I bought two. I finished eating the second of those this evening.

Yesterdays newspaper had an article about Indian mangoes and how they are packaged and sent all over the world. I worry that I will find no more mangoes worth eating this year, so all that remains for me is to cut out pictures and scour the newspapers for more stories about mangoes. The Hindu rarely disappoints in this regard.