Mango Tales

Hot season was over, and the rains had started in Bangladesh, so mango season was almost finished. I made a four-day trip to Rajshahi, a city on the Padma River (as the Ganges is called in Bangladesh) that is famous for its mangoes. I found large sweet ones there, called posli, and another variety called nangra, small ones, sweet and firm. But in fact the most memorable mango I had in Bangladesh was in Dhaka. I was having lunch with Hasna Begum and her daughter Lala (see “Remarkable Women”), and at the end of the meal, Hasna Begum placed four mangoes on the table. “These are the last mangoes, you know. Nearly fifty years ago my parents planted mango trees by our house. After my parents died, the house was divided; my sister and I each had half the property. My sister plans to build a small building on her part of the land, so the mango trees will be cut down.” The mangoes were green-skinned, some larger than others. She rinsed them in a basin of water, then sliced them into sections, leaving the peel on. The flesh was a beautiful golden orange-yellow, brilliant against the fine green peel, and, when I bit into it, oh-so-buttery, firm and smooth and lush, with no trace of fiber. The skin peeled off easily, too. It was one of the most delicious mango-eating experiences I’ve ever had.