Every summer, there's a magical moment when mangoes make their entrance. Their aroma lingers in the air, thick with sweetness and sun. Outside, the koel sings, the heat settles in, and you know—it's mango season. This is the reason I wait for summer: to taste nostalgia, one slice at a time.

Eating a mango is not merely about taste. It's about the ritual. There's a sensual precision to how the fruit fits perfectly in your palm and how it gives way with a song when sliced. Some prefer to squeeze and slurp; I like to peel, slice, and savour slowly. Each method has its poetry.

A mango farmer in Bihar once laughed when I told him I eat mine neatly, with a knife and a plate. "That's not how it's meant to be eaten," he said. "Mangoes are supposed to be messy. You let the juice run down your chin. That's how you honour the fruit." I smiled and told him I must be a funny person then. For me, there's no shame in the neatness—just as there's none in the mess. Food should help us slow down. However you eat your mango, eat it with intent.

Mangoes, for me, are steeped in memory. I still picture my mother in the kitchen, cutting mangoes with the same quiet dedication she gave to everything she cooked. She wasted nothing—each slice, each sliver, accounted for. And she ensured we all got our share, even the prized guthli (seed), which we took turns to gnaw on with reverence. In our home, the guthli wasn't just an afterthought—it was the reward. We had an unspoken rule: everyone gets a turn. No squabbles, only sharing.

More sacred than the mango was the act of sharing it. Summer afternoons with family, laughter, sticky fingers, and bowls of water nearby made the fruit—whether Malihabadi, Chausa, Langda, Imam Pasand, or Ratol—a true symbol of togetherness.

Mangoes are deeply revered across India. In Goa, the Alphonso is considered the king, while in Lucknow, mango groves were once central to social life. Today, mangoes continue to evoke pride and a strong sense of identity, symbolising history, heritage, and home. However, this reverence goes back centuries. The Mughals had a deep respect for mangoes, with Babur calling its sweetness one of India's finest offerings. His grandson, Akbar, planted an orchard of 100,000 mango trees and used the fruit as diplomatic gifts. Mangoes were central to Mughal feasts, appearing in curries, desserts, and the refreshing aam panna. Akbar even hosted mango festivals at court. Before the Mughals, Alauddin Khilji also celebrated the fruit with a lavish feast, serving it in numerous forms as both a symbol of power and passion. The mango's magic has inspired more than rulers—it has fuelled poets, too. Mirza Ghalib famously said, "Aam hon aur beshumar hon." (Let there be mangoes, and let there be plenty.)

For me, mangoes are best enjoyed with malai and toasted nuts—the creamy, crunchy pairing makes them unforgettable. Each variety carries a memory: the tangy Langra, delicate Malda, sweet Kesar, mellow Imam Pasand, and the fragrant Anwar Ratol I once tasted in London—a bite of home far away.

So forget the rules—just enjoy. Eat with your hands, let the juice drip, share the slices, fight for the guthli. Mangoes aren’t just fruit; they’re memories, family, and a link to where we come from.