Mangoes are back!

Guess what Guys and Girls?  It's mango season!  Yes indeed-y and the ripe juicy fruit are now available just about anywhere.  I confess though I've never been a huge fan of them but every few years I suddenly am overcome with the irresistible urge to consume my body weight in the sweet succulent treat.  I guess this is one of those years.  Incidentally, I do not buy them at the American grocery.  I find those to be bland and blah.  I prefer those sold by my countrymen.  Now those folks know their mangoes.

A few days ago I went to the Bangladeshi store to purchase some Hilsa fish and pick up some other staples for my cupboard.  Due to work pressures I can’t always prepare a home made meal for my little family of 2 and thanks to my rather traditional upbringing, I do suffer from a good bit of (Muslim, Bangladeshi?) guilt for this reason.  Therefore when this feeling of “I so need to feed my husband” becomes overpowering, I find time through my exhaustion to be a good wife.  Doesn’t always happen but I try.  Unfortunately these times of being that good spouse are becoming fewer and further apart and poor lil P has had to pick up the slack (not that this man could ever be labeled as lazy anyhow). 

Lately P has been doing all the grocery shopping for the house since well, you know, I’m always working but once in a while I volunteer to do some of these mundane everyday tasks in order to feel at least as if I’m getting back in-touch with the world (even if it’s not true at all and only a temporary reprieve).  It’s bad though when you walk into your grocer and the proprietor looks at you and says “wow, haven’t see you in so long, did someone hold you hostage?”  I’m thinking and wondering to myself, “Why yes, yes in fact, I have been, how did you know?”  Instead I smiled politely, gave one of those nervous tittering laughs and changed the subject.

It was while I was checking out when I saw a tall stack of boxes but before I saw them actually; my nose had detected them, the ripe smell of mangoes lingering in the air.  This sense alone triggered a few happy memories and I made the snap decision to buy a box for home.  There are about 9 to a box I believe.  A little bit of overkill for a family of just me and my hubs but oh well.  P was actually surprised when I walked in with the purchase since he knew that I wasn’t such a big fan but he was also aware that I had my impulses and he should just not question.  After 16 years, he best know these things!

Later though, as I was elbow deep in Hilsa guts (oh it’s just about as yuck as it sounds) when once again the mangoes aroma wafted at me (yes, even through the strong presence of the fishy odor) and I had to pause once more, lean against the counter and hold one up to my nose to take a long slow breath (oh I did wash my hands like 4 times before picking one of the orange orbs up, don’t worry). 

I know that studies have been done endlessly about ‘triggers’ for memories.  A sound, a scent, a taste, a feeling (?) but for me I think the strongest may just be scent.  I mean I can be anywhere and smell something and suddenly become transported back, back into the past.  Some aren’t so great, but most are pleasant.  This one was.

When I was a young bride, 16 years ago as I had mentioned just a few lines above, my husband and I decided (or rather was told by our families) that we had to go back to Bdesh to introduce each other to the rest of the extended members of the clans.  Since our wedding was here in the states, we had tons of very important people who missed the blessed event.  Of course we didn’t mind which meant 6 months after getting hitched we were winging it back to the land of our forefathers.  There was to be a big wedding reception (again, in fact the 3^rd one…talk about redundant) thrown in our honor by P’s brother and family.  My mom’s and dad’s relatives were (of course) all invited but before this big shindig, we were both going to introduce each other to our grandmothers.  Both of our grandfathers had long since passed away therefore this meeting was special.  And I can report to you that the introductions went brilliantly.  We were both embraced by the two oldest members of our individual families with much love and adoration.  Phew! 

So where does the memory mango come into play?  You know folks; I always have to give endless background before getting to any point, ever.  I would apologize for this but I know I’m not about to change and I hope to some degree you don’t want me to either. 

Moving on…

P’s family lived in the main city of Dhaka while mine, for the most part, lived/lives in Chittagong.  I’ve already spoken about these two places before and even provided a map; I’m so not doing that again.  Use your awesome Google or Bing skills and look it up for yourselves!  After about a week with his folks, we took the 5 hour bus journey to see my mom’s fam.  That bus ride in itself was amusing as heck and I could probably generate plenty of stories from it alone but no thanks, I’ll pass.  Just one little detail that I can share, the bus driver, within 10 minutes of leaving the bus depot, managed to get into an accident with another car.  I don’t believe proof of insurance and registration were exchanged by either parties but a lot of yelling and flailing of arms were to be seen and heard.

We stayed in Chittagong for about 1 week since my darling husband had limited time.  Our plan had been for him to stay for 3 weeks in the country and then fly back home to get back to work while I would stay on an additional month.  If he was going to bond with the family, it would have to be quick, so you can imagine to my vast relief, P seemed to fit in very well with the crazy crew which in retrospect shouldn’t have surprised me.  He’s really one of the nicest most congenial guys you’ll ever meet (don’t know what the poor guy did to deserve me though or how he managed to piss God off so bad that I ended up as his wife…heh).  He was the first arranged marriage son-in-law to join the family and that in itself was considered pretty awesome to the Bengali contingent.  I don’t think for a moment they ever thought that a.) I would get married to a brown guy b.) If I did, it wouldn’t be a Bangladeshi guy for sure c.)  More likely I would marry a white/Pakistani/India/other man d.) No way would I agree to an arranged marriage.  I sure did prove them wrong.  Booya!

As I said, he blended in so seamlessly that not even within days, but hours, he almost seemed like a permanent fixture amongst the aunts, uncles, cousins.  He never stood on ceremony like other new son-in-laws would/could do and after the initial shock of how instantaneously comfortable he had become, the family also loosened up. 

How exactly comfortable were all they with each other?  Well, one fine morning as I got up sweating from a fairly fitful sleep, I would discover the extent of not only them accepting him, but how much he was just a fantastic heartfelt uncomplicated ‘real’ person.  Btw, why was I sweating?  No Loves, I hadn’t had a bad dream, it was just so damn hot that summer that you often fell asleep and woke up drenched in perspiration.  And because falling asleep in such heat was undoubtedly difficult hence not actually drifting off till very, very late, I wouldn’t wake up till a lot later also than P who was very much an early riser.  To this day, even on days off, he will bounce out of bed, shower, dress and putter around for hours while I’m snoozing away to glory.  I’ve tried to feel bad about this in the past but I can’t seem to muster the real emotion.  I’m just not a morning person.

Anyhow, I got up, took a cold shower (which I didn’t mind in the least) and with a grimace put on a salwar kameez that seemed to instantly stick to me...blah.  I recall feeling put out due to the lack of a restful night of sleep so I was ready to snap anyone and everyone’s head off.  But this was not to be for within a few seconds, my mood itself changed. 

The house at that time, no not the tin-roofed one, had an open courtyard in the middle.  That’s where a lot of time would be spent in preparing food, sitting and talking, maybe someone would be putting oil in someone else’s hair or just soaking in the sun.  Just know that this was a popular congregating place.  That day, a hawker who was selling a basket full of mangoes which had been perched on top of his head, had been hailed and brought into the court yard by none other than my husband who hadn’t had a ‘desi’ mango in far too many years.  He was downright giddy with excitement and as I stood there watching from the shadows of the outer lying veranda that created a giant “U” around the premise, I couldn’t help but smile.

There he was, my handsome new husband squatting down next to my grandmother who was radiant in a white sari.  Their heads were together as they carefully picked through the mangoes, rejecting most, setting aside a few until there was a largish mound.  My Nanu kept telling P that they didn’t need that much but he insisted pointing out that the family was large so everyone had to have at least one.  I watched them banter and laugh, P telling Nanu about how he had missed the taste of the real Bangladeshi grown mangoes (which, yes, taste different than anything you can get here or in Mexico) while she in turn was shocked that he had been so very deprived all these years.  Their interaction was fantastic to watch.  The way she smiled at him brought tears to my eyes.

Once the transaction was completed a tussle to pay the hawker ensued.  I was proud to see that P would not even consider letting my grandmother, nor any of the other members of the family who had by then joined them, pay.  Once the amused, rather emaciated looking, seller had left with his pockets a lot fuller (P paid way more than the bargain price even though everyone protested it…he didn’t care, to him it was helping the poor when he himself had enough to do so…yes, I am a proud wife.) P sat there smelling the fruit while talking enthusiastically to the others.  They figured he would want to eat one after breakfast but clearly he couldn’t wait so the cook was called and instructed to peel and dice a few for him immediately.

However, P seemed to be in the mood to go old school.  He told the cook that he would take care of it himself, much to my family’s horror.  He took himself off to give the piece of fruit a good wash and then came back to plop himself back down next to Nanu.  She watched fascinated (as well as listened) as he systematically softened the uncut mango in his hands, explaining how as a child he would do this after stealing them from somewhere (I can’t remember where now) and that’s how he loved to consume the fruit the best…the ‘natural’ way.  I laughed softly, as did all the others not so quietly, while we watched my brand new groom sit there in the sun with is hair slightly wet from the shower he had taken a bit ago, sprawled next to my grandmother on a wicker stool of sorts, biting off a small piece of the top part of the mango (which he spit out) and then simply sucked the softened pulp and juices right out of it.  It was sometime around that point when he finally spotted me, motioning me over enthusiastically and insisting, and I mean insisting, that I join him.  What did I do?  Well…I joined him of course.  Love makes people do silly things I tell you. 

We sat together, my grandmother, me, him, a smattering few of the cousins all enjoying those mangoes, sucking the life juices (literally) out of them and nothing, I seriously mean nothing, has ever tasted so amazing.  The juices left our fingers, mouths and even our arms all sticky but it was incredible, nothing was quite like it.

Truthfully, since then, mangoes have never tasted the same either.  Not even this one that I’m about to consume, yes that too at work, but no I shall cut it up and eat like a person, not a heathen ; )  Here's a picture of the before...I won't show you the after.