Samrudhdi Kerkar
Daaratlo aamo baye Tavarane dole ge baye Tavarane dole “The hanging mango sways, Swaying with the breeze,
Swaying with the breeze”
In Goa, many of us have at least one mango tree standing merrily in our front yard, a prized possession.
Mangoes come in many varieties—Alphonso, Payri, Bhism, Neelam—but if there’s one that truly captures the soul of Goa, it’s Mankurad. Rich, golden, and melt-in-the-mouth, it is said to be the sweetest mango, eagerly awaited all year.
The mango tree is one of the most cherished trees. Known as “the nectar of the gods,” it holds a sacred place in Hindu, Buddhist, and Jain traditions. Its fresh green leaves are woven into Torans for auspicious occasions and adorn the Matoli during Ganesh Chaturthi, believed to purify the air.
In Konkani, these sacred leaves are called ‘Aamyacho Taal’. They even find their way into folk songs and the lively rhythms of Fugdi, where women dance in circles, singing joyfully.
As summer arrives, ripe, golden mangoes steal the spotlight, but unripe mangoes hold their own charm. Their tantalising sourness, the crunch of their firm green flesh, and the magic of salt and spice define childhood summers.
My mother and grandmother would preserve raw mangoes in salt, making sure their tangy essence lingers beyond the season. Pickled with spices, they were best enjoyed with a humble bowl of steaming Pej (rice gruel)—a simple, soul-satisfying meal.
We have two Mankurad trees, planted by my grandfather. One stands in our bustling front yard, watching over the house. The other, tucked away in a quieter corner, is home to squirrels, hornbills, parakeets, sunbirds, koels, and sometimes even rare visitors like treepies, bright yellow orioles, and leafbirds.
Oh, how many memories are woven into the cool shade of these trees!
Summer holidays meant a full house—cousins, laughter, and endless mischief. From morning till night, the mission was simple: keeping a close watch for falling mangoes. At every loud dhap, everyone would dash to grab the freshest one, even elders and neighbors joining in.
But nighttime had its own little thieves—bats. They often knocked down mangoes, leaving us to find them half-eaten in the morning. Sometimes, we tossed stones from the balcony to create a deceptive dhap, just to watch people scramble in the dark for mangoes that weren’t there—while we giggled, hidden behind the walls.
This season was truly a festival of mangoes. The house would be filled with their sweet fragrance, and everything in the kitchen revolved around them—pickles, chutneys, jams, shakes, sweets, juices, and even curries. And after every meal, a golden, fleshy piece of mango was savoured as the perfect finish.
Before bearing fruit, the mango tree blooms with delicate, whitish-yellow flowers that perfume the winter air. Known as ‘Amramanjiri’, their scent stirs nostalgia. The tree transforms into a giant, gleeful blossom, alive with the hum of birds, bees, and insects.
I remember a year when every mango tree in our area was in full bloom, so much so that the leaves were barely visible beneath the sea of blossoms. But among them all, the one in our backyard stood out, hosting nature’s grand celebration with birds gathering in full swing.
Then came the next magical phase—the tiny blossoms turning into big, green mangoes. The tree, so full of fruit, seemed to shed its leaves entirely, as though it had poured all its energy into nurturing them.
But joy is often fleeting.
One day, after returning from a trip, we were met with a heartbreaking sight. A powerful storm had left our beloved mango tree half-broken, nearly collapsed onto the roof. Thousands of unripe mangoes lay scattered across the ground, carpeting it so thickly that even the leaves had disappeared beneath them. I couldn’t hold back my tears.
For two, maybe three years, the tree did not bloom. People said, “Just like a man is shaken after a great shock, so must the tree be.” And perhaps they were right.
But nature has its own way of healing.A familiar fragrance filled the air once more as the once-bare branches began to bloom. Birds, bees, and insects returned, filling the space with their cheerful songs.
Despite the bitter storms it had endured, the tree’s fruit remained sweet.
Now, as I look at the tree with gratitude, a thought often crosses my mind—this tree was planted by my grandfather, a gift he left behind for us.
He is no longer with us, but his presence lingers in its branches, its shade, its fruit. I wonder how many of its mangoes he must have savoured in his lifetime.
Perhaps not as many as we do now. But this tree remains a living memory of him—something we cherish deeply.
Planting a tree is a beautiful way to leave a gift for future generations—a quiet legacy that keeps giving even after we’re gone.
The thought that someday, someone will walk beneath its branches, enjoy its shade, breathe in its sweet fragrance, or savour its golden fruit brings me joy.
