If you were to ask me which season reigns supreme, I wouldn’t hesitate for a single, sweat-drenched second: Summer.
Objectors will inevitably whine about the oppressive heat and the permanent layer of perspiration. To them, I offer a haughty, unyielding counter-truth: this is the heavenly season of mangoes. It is a beautiful, cosmic law that the hotter and sweatier the weather becomes, the sweeter and more deliciously intoxicating the mangoes grow and then rise the Mango Maniacs!!

Part 1: The Strict Geometry of Scarcity

Growing up with a “tribe of ten” aka the Mango Maniacs crammed into one household meant that mangoes were never a commodity of plenty. Survival required an outreach strategy based on an evolutionary highly mathematical philosophy.

Our daily lunch dose consisted of exactly three mangoes. Our mother—a staunch, unyielding believer in absolute equality—would slice them with surgical precision. She had no choice; ten pairs of eyes instantly transformed into technical observers, ready to flag a millimetre’s variance in portion size.
But what of the coveted mango seed, still dripping with luscious, stubborn flesh?

That sacred relic was served on a strict rotation, starting from the youngest Mango Maniac. When your fortunate day finally rolled around, you claimed your prize and sucked that seed until it was as white as a lily flower.

While these precious pieces were delightful when paired with hot sambar or comforting rasam rice, mixing them with humble buttermilk rice elevated the experience into absolute ambrosia. Yet, when lunch concluded, the hearts of the Mango Maniac tribe would ache uniformly with a single, haunting thought: If only I had just one more piece.

Part 2: The Weekend Bonanza and the Living Fruit Bottles

This weekly agony, however, was routinely shattered by a weekend miracle. Enter our elder brother: a generous doctor who would roar into the driveway on his Yamaha bike, carrying a massive bag stuffed to the brim with green-and-yellow treasure.
We the Mango Maniacs would wait with bated breath as he took a quick wash, swapped his clothes for a comfortable lungi, and claimed his throne on the kitchen’s cement floor. Out of the bag tumbled the Rumanis—yellow beauties, big and round

Had these been handed to our mother, she would have cleverly rationed them into a mango feast spanning weeks. But our brother was a rogue agent of joy. On that clean cement floor, his legendary culinary expertise would begin under the watchful gaze of his worshipful audience aka The Mango Maniacs:
• The Tenderizing: He would place a fruit on the floor and gently, slowly roll it back and forth under his palm.
• The Transformation: Minutes would pass until the firm flesh inside collapsed into pure, liquid gold.
• The Exhibition: We would eagerly arrange these organic, aesthetic “fruit bottles” around a massive brass plate, salivating like Pavlovian test subjects.

Then came the masterclass demonstration. Hold the fruit with both hands. Bite a small, precise hole into the skin with your teeth. Suck out the juice slowly—very slowly—lest the seed pop out prematurely. It was an elixir vita we relished with absolute devotion.

But as life would have it, this golden era came to an abrupt halt when our brother was transferred to Chennai. The tribe was devastated.

Part 3: The Military Parade of Plenty

Apparently, the lucky stars of the Mango Maniacs were not done shining. Our parents soon purchased a village-style house in Gandhi Nagar, featuring a massive garden boasting three magnificent mango trees. These trees were either genius-level entities or had been planted by a born orchard specialist.
They operated like a disciplined military parade. When one tree bloomed, it exhibited an overwhelming bounty. We would spread the yellow and green beauties over fresh hay and cover them carefully with neem leaves. By the third morning, an intoxicating fragrance would emanate from the stash, filling every corner of the house.

[The New Mango Routine for the Mango Maniacs]
Breakfast ➔ A luscious mango gripped tightly in each hand.
Lunch ➔ Buttermilk rice packed with extra mangoes to share with friends.
Surplus ➔ Mum distributing boundless portions to relatives and neighbours.

No more rationing three pieces among the Mango Maniacs. No more aching for a turn at the seed. These beautiful trees yielded harvest after harvest into the very end of the month of August, even blessing us with a secondary, joyous rainy-season crop.

Part 4: The 200-Year-Old Mantra and Cosmic Intersections

The magic deepened years later. Out of the blue, my husband received a phone call from our dear friend Steve Borgio at the Baburajapuram INDECO Resort. Steve, who never let us leave the resort without a massive jackfruit crammed into our car, announced that a special parcel was waiting for us in Chennai, sent straight from Swamimalai.

Inside, resting on Indeco letterhead, was a note from Steve that began with a warm “Dear Anna” and referenced a profound Tamil saying: “Let my fortune be shared with the whole world.”
The parcel contained six gargantuan Malgova fruits, each easily weighing a kilogram or more. They were plucked from a miracle tree over 200 years old—alive, kicking, and steeped in mysticism:
• It is fertilized exclusively on the Full Moon Day.
• It begins its bloom on the Full Moon Day.
• Its harvest takes place on the Full Moon Day.
• Every single second of its existence, the tree listens to the reverberations of the Pranav mantra: “OM.”

Fascinated by Steve’s philosophy of universal sharing, I the feverent the sole beneficiary of the Mango Maniacs, immediately split the treasure: one for our precious back-house neighbour, one each for the two lovely ladies who help me at home, two for my son’s family, and one solitary, magnificent fruit for my husband and me. If palmyra fruit is famously dubbed the “cool summer apple,” then Steve’s celestial Malgova can only be screamed from the rooftops as “Very Genuine Ice Cream.”

Part 5: The Intersectional Roof and the 200-Fruit Universe

This spirit of sharing brought a beautiful, slow-burning friendship with the lady living right behind our house. It began small, with a classic neighbourhood exchange: her Deepavali sweets for my Christmas neiurundai (ghee balls), crispy murukku, and sweet athirasam. She was utterly astonished that a Christian family making traditional cakes and Kalakala could simultaneously master authentic Tamilian festive snacks!

This cross-cultural bond eventually climbed up to the sky. Half of her backyard mango tree happened to extend directly over our kitchen roof—a spot my agile, younger helper could easily scale.
During one spectacular season, my neighbour looked up and declared with ultimate grace:
“Take all the mangoes from your side; what is on my side is more than enough for me.”

With ownership happily declared, we (the Mango Maniacs) harvested more than 200 fruits from that shared canopy. And so, true to the ancient Tamil wisdom, we entered full sharing mode once again, ensuring our sweet fortune was joyfully scattered across the universe.