“I tasted my first mango of the season on the last day of April. It was an Alphonso. It was as sweet as any mango could be. It tasted even sweeter as it was given to me by the ravishingly beautiful Begum Dilshad Sheikh — who spends her winter months in the block next to mine — a day before she left for Srinagar where she would be for the rest of the year. I bring up the subject as I intend to experiment with my food habits while growing older and older. I intend to make a mango a part of my mid-day meal. I am told it is a mild laxative. It will do me good as the papaya I eat in the afternoon for the same purpose is not proving to be as effective as I had hoped.”

I wrote the last paragraph about two days before I launched my plan to live by eating only mangoes. The experiment lasted 48 hours. The same variety of mango which had tasted sweet now began to taste sickly sweet. I became more conscious of it being the messiest fruit in the world than its taste. Every time I ate one it messed up my moustache, beard and fingers.

It occurred to me that besides countries that grow mangoes, no other country relishes the fruit. In none of the European or American homes where I have been invited for a meal was I served mangoes in a fruit dish. I was served apples, pears, strawberries, peaches, oranges, grapes, kinoos, apricots and other local favourites, but never mangoes. The latter’s praises are sung only in countries that grow them.

It is recorded that the poet, Mirza Ghalib, ate a dozen mangoes a day during summer. If I eat more than one mango, I want to counter its lingering taste by eating some salted delicacy.

An anecdote that has lingered in my mind is about Ghalib’s visit to the Red Fort to pay a courtesy call on the emperor who was very fond of mangoes. As they were strolling through the mango orchard, known as Dilshad Bagh, Ghalib remarked: “I am told that every mango has the name of the person for whom it is meant inscribed on its guthlie (seed). I wonder if any of the mangoes in your garden has my name on its guthlie.” The emperor took the hint. He soon had two basketfuls of ripe mangoes plucked and presented to the poet.

It is said that once, when a friend was paying a visit to Ghalib in his home in Gali Qasim Jaan, the garbage bin outside was overflowing with mango skins and guthlies. A donkey happened to be passing by. It sniffed at the mango waste and walked away without eating any. Ghalib’s friend remarked: “Mirza Sahib, aam ko to gadhey bhee nahin khaatey — You see, Mirza Sahib, even donkeys don’t eat mangoes.”

“Haan,” replied the poet, “only donkeys don’t like mangoes.”

Snack time

When I returned to the flat that evening, there were sounds coming from Ravi’s room. The rhythm of love-making, communicated by the creaking of his bed, which soon swelled to an unrestrained crescendo of ecstasy in a male and a female voice. I was becoming familiar with these noises, and wondered what Karim Bhai, thought of them. There was no sign of Karim Bhai, but I assumed he had called or met Ravi earlier on. I shut myself up in my room with one of the last volumes of my Proust.

An hour later, Ravi knocked on my door, opened it and did a fair imitation of a siren blowing. All clear, bastard, he announced, let’s get a pizza.

(From Tabish Khair’s How to Fight Islamist Terror from the Missionary Position.)

All about the money

Which care is better, that was the

matter

And there was a murder;

Let your heart not sink

But you can die, if you fail to

supply

Money to buy a drink;

Be a reasonably dependable mouse

And allow your son to sell your

house,

Let your father’s funeral skip

But never postpone your daughter’s

outstation trip.

I’ll tell you how to make money,

come —

Kidnap a classmate and earn a

ransom,

Money makes the mare go

So kill anybody and into the river

throw,

Smuggle opium and sell your

nation’s secrets,

Or whatever else the means

Let no scruples be seen

Nowadays all money is clean.

(Contributed by Kuldip Salil, Delhi)