It certainly seems like much ado over a smashed and squelched fruit. But don’t let aamras lovers ever hear you say that. After all, in India the mango is not just a fruit. It’s an obsession, up there with sixers and big fat weddings. And just like the most nail-biting cricket match and zardozi-laden shaadi , it’s the source of exquisite anxiety and bitter rivalry.

The build-up starts at the end of March, around the same time that the summer turns mean. Suddenly headlines start appearing in the newspapers. ‘Shell out more for Mangoes this Summer’ or ‘Muthalamada Filled with the Scent of Mangoes’ or ‘40 per cent Alphonso Crops Damaged by Unseasonal Rain’. Then a few days later, when you’re wandering around Crawford Market seeking discounted toilet rolls, you’re waylaid by a familiar aroma — the smell of sweetness, joy and scary price tags.

A few weeks later, mangoes have taken over the city. Grotty Crawford Market has metamorphosed into a fragrant fantasy full of orange jewels and golden hay. Stern matrons stand around poking, prodding, sniffing and bargaining. Or, at least, trying to. For nobody’s really paying attention to their nasal demands. The shopkeepers in bright white dhotis and kurtas are fielding calls from Paris, Prague and Pennsylvania. “Paanch dozen organic,” they bark at scurrying helpers.

Soon, courier companies advertise “Express Mango Delivery” services. Five-star hotels announce mango festivals featuring curiosities like caramelised mango pizza, mango mushroom broth and mango cardamom crème brulee. As far as I’m concerned though, you can keep your alphonso chilli chocolates and mango salsa. I’m too busy queuing up outside Golden Star, Rajdhani or Thakkar Bhojnalaya. For, as any mango traditionalist will tell you, it’s only when Gujarati restaurants start serving bowls of thick, honey-sweet aamras that The Season has officially begun.

A Sunday unlimited-aamras lunch at one of these thali wonderlands involves careful strategy. Keep Saturday dinner light. Skip Sunday breakfast. Land up well before 1 o’clock — else you’ll be clutching Token 114 and standing in a snaking queue, waiting for those insatiable Token 43-walas to finish their meal.

While mango may be the King of Fruit, aamras takes it to another level. Especially when the ras is scooped up with crisp oily puris. Perhaps it’s the contrast between chilled ras and hot puris. Perhaps it’s the combination of gooey and chewy. At any rate, this pairing of sun-kissed pulp and sinful staple makes for undeniable magic.

Still, you will probably protest, the aamras is basically squeezed and squashed fruit. So how tricky can it be?

Well, you’ve taken your first step on a path riddled with controversies. One misstep and you’ll be the subject of fulminations in the Letters to the Editor column. Or cruelly disowned by friends who usually send you a box of tree-ripened Alphonsos from their Alibaug farm every season. For when it comes to mangoes, everybody loses their sense of humour and tolerance.

Anyway, if it’s the perfect aamras you want, start with the perfect ras mango. But which one? In a country where the Mulgova vs Dusheri vs Himsagar controversy rages every year, we’re never going to agree. Most aamras recipes involve Kesar or Alphonso. Which is hardly surprising given that Alphonso — the fleshy, orange variety developed when the Portuguese began experimenting with grafting — has vanquished competitors the way Rambo deals with irritants.

But the Alphonso is just too stolid, too sweet and too obvious for aamras. Choose Pairi instead. It has a complex and piquant flavour, a lighter consistency, and is the perfect ras mango. As is the fat, fresh, value-for-money Rajapuri. And the late-season Langra, which is apparently named after a lame farmer who first harvested it near Varanasi.

Once you’ve chosen your mangoes, make them into a pulp. Easy peasy, you might think. Chop and peel the fruit and toss into the mixie jar — but at your own peril. The old way of making aamras involves gently squeezing and rolling the mango till the flesh softens and starts to seep out. After which you press more vigorously and push the pulp into the bowl. Keep at it till the last drop of juice has been transferred from mango to bowl.

There are purists who like their aamras plain and lumpy. I prefer it with a little sugar and a dash of milk, blended into a smooth consistency. Nothing else. Not the ginger powder, cardamom or saffron that many people mix. And certainly not ghee.

I’m tempted to rant at the ghee and ginger crowd. Except that there’s a better way to deal with mango disagreements. Many years ago, my Bohra grandmother used to host Ras Galas. She would invite five or six friends, issue instructions to Karim the cook, and summon her daughters to do the pulping and stirring. Then when the grand day arrived, the old biddies would play rummy and sit down to a looooong lunch.

There were four or five types of aamras, served one after another, and eaten with muslin-thin chapatis. Some bhajiyas and veggies to clear the palate between the courses of aamras. My granny and her friends munched their way through the fruity banquet, discussing each aamras. Then they toodled off for their siestas. Which seems the most sensible way to enjoy a delicacy that’s only around for about 100 days of the year.

My perfect aamras

(Serves 4)

Three ripe, plump Pairis

Sugar to taste

2 tbsp milk

1 Wash the mangoes and roll them on the kitchen counter till the flesh starts to soften and yield. Then hold over a bowl and squeeze the pulp out. Continue till you’ve pushed out every drop.

2 Add milk and sugar to taste. Blend till the consistency is uniform.

3 Chill in the fridge for about an hour. (Too long and it will start turning brown.)

4 Wolf down with hot puris or thin chapatis. Or pour over vanilla ice-cream.

(Shabnam Minwalla is a journalist and author ofThe Six Spellmakers of Dorabji Street)

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