Think of Indian summers, and the mango appears—not merely as a fruit, but as memory incarnate. Ripe, golden, and sun-steeped, it arrives before the first bead of sweat glistens, just as spring exhales its final sigh. Across the subcontinent, the word aam begins to echo—softly at first, then swelling into a collective yearning that ripples through homes and histories alike.
In Delhi today, the monsoon is often synonymous with waterlogged roads, mosquito swarms and sweltering discomfort. Yet once, saawan ka maheena was idyllic—lush, languid, and dreamlike. Before Delhi’s rapid urban sprawl took root, the city bore orchards of mangoes near Mehrauli, planted during the reign of Akbar Shah II. In those times, the love for mangoes flowed undisturbed—from royal gardens to humble courtyards, from the Mughals to modern-day families.
Long before the advent of television jingles or Instagram reels, the mango had already achieved mythic stature—immortalised in verse and royal memoirs. Amir Khusrow named it fakhr-e-gulshan—the pride of the garden. In the Ain-i-Akbari, Emperor Akbar extolled its virtues with the reverence reserved for a treasured confidante. Jahangir, ever the romantic, wrote with heartfelt candour in Tuzuk-i-Jahangiri that no other fruit pleased him more. But it is Mirza Ghalib who perhaps distilled the truth most simply and sweetly: “Aamo mein bas do khoobiyaan honi chahiye—ek meethe ho aur bahut saare.” They must be sweet, and plentiful. What more could one ask?
In City of My Heart, historian Rana Safvi draws from four Urdu narratives chronicling Delhi’s twilight Mughal years. In Dilli ka Aakhiri Deedar by Syed Wazir Hasan Dehlvi, she brings to life the monsoon of yesteryear—when princesses and their companions wandered the baghs of amriya’n near Zafar Mahal, beneath Mehrauli’s grey skies. Every year, Emperor Bahadur Shah Zafar and his family would join the Phoolwalon ki Sair, a festival of flowers, music, and mangoes in saawan’s embrace.
Today, mangoes may line market stalls and fuel an industry—but their true power lies in the comfort they bring. They are the gentlest balm of summer. Served in chilled bowls during a sleepy afternoon siesta, folded into kulfi or kheer on heat-hung nights, they are not simply eaten—they are remembered.
Each bite is a return. To childhood verandahs. To juice running down sun-warmed arms. To grandmothers seated on woven charpais, slicing fruit with the ease of ritual. To that first mango of the season—always sweeter than memory allowed, as though the sun itself had ripened it just for you.
Nanak Khanna, a 54-year-old resident of Karkardooma in East Delhi, recalls his boyhood with a gleam that outshines the years. And when he slips into Punjabi mid-sentence, the boy he once was seems to reappear in full colour. “I have such fond memories of eating amb as a child,” he says, smiling. “There were six of us—my siblings—and every summer, our father would bring home crates of mangoes. He’d soak them in a big tub of water to keep them cool during those blistering days.”
He laughs—rich and full. “I was the youngest, and mangoes were my weakness. I’d wake at dawn while the others slept, sneak into the kitchen, and steal a few extra mangoes. Then I’d hide the peels and the guthli so no one would know.”His voice drifts into memory, but the mischief lingers. Because some stories never really end. They ripen anew—season after season—just like the mangoes that inspired them.
The mango is more than India’s beloved summer fruit—it is a season unto itself, a bridge between history and hearth, heritage and home. From Mughal baghs to modern kitchens, its presence endures—not just in taste, but in feeling. Every mango, peeled and passed from hand to hand, carries the imprint of those who came before—emperors and poets, grandmothers and barefoot children. And as the monsoon gathers once more, bringing with it the scent of wet earth and ripening fruit, we are reminded that some joys—like the first bite of a mango—remain eternal.