Mango turns city into basket case

<div class="section1"><div class="Normal">mumbai: <span style="" font-style:="" italic="">kitne peti?</span> isn’t quite the question you would expect to encounter in casual conversation —much less bellow down a corridor teeming with potential police informers. but the sweaty sethjis of gala no 378 respond with remarkable composure. for, in the wholesale fruit market at vashi, the p-word stands not for ill-gotten money, but for another great mumbai obsession.although it’s just 11 a.m., thousands of petis packed with mangoes have already exchanged hands. during the last fortnight, even as students were rushing through their final maths revision, the mango season quietly hitched a ride into the city. every day, about 150 trucks rattle into the vashi market bearing tin trunks and wooden crates from ratnagiri and devgadh—so much so that even the most mba-topper-type melon or swollen-headed citrus is forced to retreat to the sidelines. “there is nothing to match the alphonso,’’ says pappu, a fruitwalla from bhendi bazaar, peering at a box of dusky beauties.“it’s the king of fruit.’’ this, in fact, is one indian raja whose lifestyle has not been curtailed by the abolition of the monarchy. every year, the fruit’s advent is heralded by headlines like ‘alphonso makes an early entry this year’ or ‘the king has arrived’. it commands its own special train between ap and delhi, and is welcomed despite a nasty retinue of boils and upset tummies. what accounts for its vip status? “mangoes are popular because they have lots of vitamins,’’ conjectures balu of dnandeo balaji vanduskar, a fruit shop at crawford market, who maintains that the alphonso is “sabse high class’’. concurs arjun bholerao dhole, a well-known fruit merchant, “if you take home two kilos of grapes, there will be enough to feed the entire family, and more for the next day. but take home any number of mangoes, and they will fall short.’’ adds kishor jagwani, a vashi wholesaler, “yeh to god gift hai.’’ indeed, all it takes is a sniff to submit to the lure of the langda, the tug of the totapuri. if the aroma of the vashi market were captured in a crystal bottle and sold in duty free shops, the blurb would describe it as a “summery fragrance with a top-note of mango and a heart of sunshine and haystacks’’. little wonder, then, that captivated hordes keep coming—never mind that a dozen alphonsos cost between rs 200 and rs 1,000 at this time. of the approximately 1,000 wholesalers at vashi, about 800 deal in mangoes. but the practised shoppers don’t seem at all intimidated by the countless crates of green ‘tweens and blushing adolescents.“ how can we identify a good mango? the same way that a doctor can tell if a baby is healthy,’’ says vilas dhoble, who runs a famous, 107-year-old fruit shop at crawford market. adds ashok hande, one of the mega-merchants of vashi,“like diabetes or bp, it’s a hereditary trait. most of us can tell the quality of a mango at a glance. if a customer actually picks up a fruit, we know he is a novice.’’ once the wares are scrutinised, it’s time to get physical. outside gala no 431, a strange ritual is being enacted. an expressionless sethji stands next to six petis of mango with a green-checked napkin draping his extended right hand. a series of juicewallas and fruitwallas approach him and execute an undercover handshake. “the buyer indicates his offer with his fingers,’’ says pappu, explaining the mechanics of the touchy-feely auction. “if he proffers one finger, he is offering rs 1,000 for a peti.two fingers would mean rs 1,200.the bids are completely secret.’’ after five minutes and perhaps 20 encounters of the clammy kind, the sethji suddenly picks up his napkin and heartily smacks sanjay juicewala.a deal has been sealed. so, what did sanjay cough up for these crates of six dozen alphonsos? nobody’s telling. as mr hande warns, “expecting us to disclose the price is like expecting a film heroine to reveal her actual age.don’t ever hope for the truth.’’ even though the mango crop has been disappointing this year, and demand is said to be down both locally and in the gulf, veiled handshakes are exchanged all over the market. and a steady stream of tempos head for exporters’ warehouses, five-star hotels and crawford market.“in the old days, the first mango arrived at our shop on gudi padva,’’ recalls mr dhoble, who sits in his crawford market stall, loyally sipping on a mangola.“but in this age of instant satisfaction, mangoes have started coming as early as february. even today, however, we greet the first mangoes of the season with a small puja.’’ the royal alphonso is usually trailed by less feted siblings like the goodnatured dassehri, the curvaceous totapuri and the podgy rajapuri—until the mean monsoons signal the end of aamras and indulgence. those who are willing to shell out rs 900 for a dozen mangoes (and to bite into a fruit which goes by the beery name of ‘tommy atkins’) can now buy south african imports all year round. not that this quells the excitement of april. “everybody in the fruit business waits for this season,’’ says mr dhole, pointing out that from the daily-wage labourer to the mango-monarchs, mangoes mean prosperity for all. agrees balu gleefully, “if things go well for the next three months, the rest of the year is aaram. now do you understand why the mango is our favourite fruit?’’ </div> </div>