Stories of growers, geopolitics, and even fruit flies, Sopan Joshi’s ‘Mangifera Indica’ describes multiple aspects of India’s most beloved fruit.
One summer, a young Sopan Joshi, excited about the pulpy treat Subash Chacha had prepared, let out two English words—“mango juice”. Little did he know, this innocent exclamation would quickly become a running joke in the family. Thereafter, each time he met his uncle, he eagerly re-enacted this scene, regaling guests about the nephew who could not recognise his aam ras.
In the prologue of Mangifera Indica: A Biography of the Mango, Sopan recalls the last time he saw Subash Chacha—in 2017. He could not get out of bed, but Sopan writes how the same spark momentarily returned to his uncle’s eyes. “He drew up his shaking arm, the skin sagging around the bones and atrophied muscles. He curled his hand like he was holding a cricket ball. Only two words came out of his mouth: ‘mango juice!’.”
In India, mangoes are intertwined with every facet of life: culture, politics, relationships, memories. They date back many millenia, spanning different civilisations, languages, and varieties. Yet, what do we really know about this delectable fruit?
To answer this question, Mangifera Indica undertakes an ambitious synthesis of reportage, history, biology, ecology, economics, and culture, offering a definitive account of the king of fruits. From the orchards where they grow to markets and, ultimately, our dining tables, this deeply-researched book brings never-heard-before stories of mango growers, traders, distributors, and consumers.
Having worked as a journalist since 1996, Sopan notes that while gushy articles about mangoes are produced by media outlets each season, there is little reportage on the actual fruit, or those who grow and research it. Read this excerpt from the section Book Three: The Fruit of the Senses, where Sopan travels to Thalupulapalli village in Chittoor, Andhra Pradesh, to meet T. Chandrasekhar Reddy, a farmer conserving traditional varieties of mangoes:
When butterflies collide with fast-moving vehicles, all you hear is a dull splat. Turn that sound into a ceaseless drum roll, and you know what it sounds like to ride a motorcycle on the west-bound highway out of Bengaluru in the month of May. White butterflies mobbed the highway. No matter how slow I went, I could not avoid the guilt of being a serial splatterer of butterflies.
I was covered in butterfly debris when I reached Chittoor in Andhra Pradesh. I turned north and 24 kilometres later arrived at Thalupulapalli village. This region was once famous for its sugarcane and jaggery. The extensive cultivation of the water-intensive crop sucked away the groundwater table—it is down to more than 1,200 feet-labelling this region a ‘dark zone’. I had come to meet T. Chandrasekhar Reddy, whose name and number I saw on a document on farmers conserving traditional mango varieties. I found him talking to a neighbour under a blooming tamarind tree. Tiny leaves fell like rain on us, along with the occasional red ant.
Reddy was soft-spoken and reserved, verging on reticent. The way to get an Indian farmer to open up is to ask about the rains. “The monsoon has disappointed us for over a decade,” he said, as we went past the dry village pond. “People here took to the mango because it does not need irrigation. We also grow dryland crops like groundnut, millets, and chillies,” he said. He took me home where his wife had readied a lavish breakfast. After, while cutting up a middling Imam Pasand mango, he parsed through the mango’s agronomy in Chittoor. One, the mango pulp factories here are a ready market. Two, the incidence of insect pests is low in this dry region, lowering the cost of cultivation. And, three, more than half the total area under mango cultivation grows only one variety: Totapuri.
The way to get an Indian farmer to open up is to ask about the rains.
This humble variety’s story is quite the fable. “Earlier, nobody had Totapuri if they could afford another mango. It was the cheapest mango, consumed by the poorest. But the pulp business changed all that. Its fortunes changed drastically,” Reddy said. Totapuri is the only Indian mango variety, except Neelum, that flowers and fruits each year, regularly. It is naturally robust and does not require much care. Its firm flesh is neither very sweet nor flavourful; but it is remarkably consistent and fibre-free. Commercial mango pulp is 90 per cent Totapuri and 10 per cent Alphonso, for its bouquet. When you gulp down your next mango drink, remind yourself that the meek, in this case Totapuri, do inherit the earth. Reddy’s extended family has a total of 120 acres, of which 95 acres is committed to the mango; of that, more than 70 acres is just Totapuri.
I was not there for Totapuri, though. After breakfast, Reddy took me to his orchards. It was too early for varieties other than the Benishan—the mango travel game is a roulette. He first took me to the tree that gives him his best Imam Pasand also known as Himayat. It barely had any fruits. “This is the king of all mangoes. But it is a very shy bearer. Each year, we get a few really good mangoes,” Reddy said. “It has a unique taste, very sweet. The flesh has no fibre and you can cut it like a cake.” The Imam Pasand I had at breakfast, however, tasted ordinary.
Earlier, nobody had Totapuri if they could afford another mango. It was the cheapest mango, consumed by the poorest. But the pulp business changed all that
We tried some Rumani, a round fruit with an apple-like shape resembling the north Indian variety Kishan Bhog. Rumani commands a sizeable market in Tamil Nadu. What we tasted was unremarkable, but then the best produce had not come yet. Mulgova is a popular variety in south India, especially Tamil Nadu. “It is a shy bearer, like so many fine varieties,” Reddy said. We tasted one but it was not ripe. There were trees of varieties called Kuddus, Lalbaba, and Kalepadu. A variety called Thorapadu bears large fruits and is used in pickles. “In Tamil Nadu they call it the “egg omelette”. We call it Raja Pasand but we do not like to eat it,” he said. And then we arrived at the seedling trees because of which Reddy has been recognized as a mango conservator. One is called Allikai, it gives large and fibrous mangoes that are used in pickles and chutneys. He has some nameless varieties that scientists have numbered under naati or native.
Reddy’s neighbour Sriramulu Achari joined us. He had five seedling-type naati varieties that scientists from the Indian Institute of Horticultural Research (IHR) in Bengaluru have studied and earmarked for conservation. He showed me his trees that had dried up for lack of water. For all that Reddy had told me, the day had been disappointing. I did not taste anything memorable other than the generous breakfast. This is when I remembered the names of two small varieties: Atimadhuram (extremely sweet) and Shakkar Guthli. He took me to the trees. The fruits were very small and immature. This is when I noticed a cheepi—a small, flat fruit with an underdeveloped seed. (Such fruits ripen on the tree very early. Growers use them to decide when to harvest their crop because they indicate the maturity of the remaining fruits. Across the country, names used for such fruits include cheep or seep or seepi.)
I reached for the Atimadhuram cheepi; it came off readily. Its skin had begun to change colour. Without my pocket knife, I cut it open with my teeth and reached for its warm and fibrous flesh.
It was both fragrant and quite sweet. A horticulture professor had told me growers do not sell Atimadhuram, using it for domestic consumption or for gifts to near and dear ones. Both Reddy and Achari confirmed it with a smile.
Shakkar Guthli, meanwhile, is so small it looks like a large grape; it grows in bunches, too. I took off two fruits from a bunch, looking like a couple of ping-pong balls. I bit into them, although they were not mature; there were hints of its strong taste and sweetness. It only seemed natural in this place, once famous for its sugarcane and jaggery. I headed back into the butterflies.
This is an excerpt from ‘Mangifera Indica: A Biography of the Mango’ by Sopan Joshi and published by Aleph Book Company (2024). Excerpted with permission from the author and publisher.
Sopan Joshi is an independent journalist and author based in Delhi. He entered journalism in 1996 after acquiring an MA in English literature. He has written and edited for a variety of publications. Joshi has reported on land and agriculture, water and forestry, public health and science, indigenous peoples and the environment. His writing interests include travel and adventure, sports and motoring, religion and politics. He has five non-fiction titles to his name.
