A charming, almost endearing sight greets you as you drive along the Hardoi highway from Lucknow to Malihabad. In innumerable orchards and nurseries lining both sides of the road, farmers lie on string cots in the shade, guarding their mango trees against the unwelcome attentions of squirrels, parrots and naughty children. Stop to speak to them, and you will find that each has the same prayer on his lips: Let there be no thunder or hailstorm in the next few weeks.
This year has been a tempestuous one for these farmers, a virtual see-saw ride of fortune, good and bad. First, the famous Malihabadi Dussehri mango bagged the prestigious Geographical Index (GI) status, bringing it international recognition and protection of its distinct identity. As if on cue, the flowering this year turned out to be the best in several decades. But, before the celebrations could roll, two bugs—Gall Midge and Rujji—sneaked into the orchards and destroyed almost 50 per cent of the crop.
The miracle is, the farmers remain bright and cheerful, their hopes still alive for a bumper crop after two years of low yields. “It was the best flowering I have seen in my 70 years. A lot has been lost due to negligence, but the crop will still be the best in the last 10 years,” asserts Malihabad-based horticulturist Haji Kalimullah Khan. The only worry is that bad weather shouldn’t damage the delicate crop before it fully ripens.
Malihabad, a town in Lucknow district, is well-known as the home of poet Josh Malihabadi, and it was in Malihabad’s palaces that Shyam Benegal shot his 1978 film, Junoon. These days, however, Padma Shri Kalimullah Khan, who took to mango cultivation in 1957, shortly after failing his seventh standard, is the town’s most famous resident. The man has grafted and grown about 350 varieties of mango—from the bitter-gourd- shaped Karela to the heart-shaped Asroor Muqarar—on a single 100-year-old tree. “Mangoes are my passion,” he readily acknowledges. “They are more important to me than my children.”
Sachin’s Mango Debut
The Mango Maharaja of Malihabad, Kalimullah, has developed a new hybrid variety of mango this season which he has named after master blaster Sachin Tendulkar. It is a hybrid of two of India’s finest mango varieties—Gudad Shah and Chausa. As he shows us the rather inconspicuous Sachin Tree in his sprawling orchard, Kalimullah promises that the Sachin Mango, when it ripens, will be beautiful to look at—soft, with a shiny skin—and taste sweet, creamy and juicy. Sachin Mangoes will be sold to the public only next year, but the first fruits from the tree will be delivered to—who else?—Sachin, as soon as they ripen.
Kalimullah is much in demand with the local media these days. It’s the time of the year when the mango hits the headlines here almost every other day, the latest talking point being Kalimullah’s new creation, to be named after the legendary Sachin Tendulkar. Clearly, the mango is not “aam” (ordinary) in these parts, it is “khaas” (special); it’s the fruit on which the local economy depends, and from which the place derives its identity. “Our gods reside in our orchards,” says Bhawarji Tripathi, an orchard owner in Mall, a town in the 27,000 hectares of mango-growing country around Lucknow, which yield five lakh metric tonnes of mangoes every year. It is said that 100-odd farmers in this belt earn around Rs 2-2.5 crore each every season; but mangoes sustain not just orchard owners but a host of other players, including transporters and packers.
The first mangoes are believed to have arrived in Malihabad with Mughal soldiers, and the plantations were developed by Pathans under royal patronage by the nawabs of Avadh, who ruled from Lucknow. Folklore has it that the mango orchards were at one time so dense that sunlight couldn’t reach the ground. Members of the fading Lucknowi nawabi aristocracy, like Jafar Mir Abdullah, recall that just like kabutarbaazi and baterbaazi, “aambaazi” too had its loyalists. “The mango parties were just like fairs, with people mingling with each other in celebration of mangoes,” he says.
Why did the mango take so well to Malihabad? Kunwar Bhupendra Singh of Mall, whose great grandfather owned the first commercial mango orchard in the region, puts it down to soil, wind flow, moisture, water level and temperature. “These factors explain why the Malihabad Dussehri tastes so much better than those from other areas,” he says.
It’s not an idle boast—the Malihabadi Dussehri is, indeed, highly rated for its looks, colour, smell and taste. But life has not been as sweet, in recent years, for those who cultivate it. Water is hard to come by and electricity for pumping water in equally short supply. Farmers are unhappy with the government for not offering subsidies on pesticides. No wonder, then, that the area under mango cultivation has depleted, with some farmers taking to growing profitable and less delicate fruits, such as guava and papaya.
Moreover, despite the coveted GI status, which is said to boost exports, few Malihabadi Dussehris actually reach the export markets. Their table life is short, farmers explain, and they need to be packed and transported fast. But as young cultivator Shahroz Wali Khan points out, “There are hardly any international cargo connections from Lucknow.” Symbolic of the neglect of the mango belt, the ancient tree believed locally to be the mother tree of all Malihabadi mangoes stands unsung in the dusty village of Dussehri, and the village that has given its name to this prized variety has no public transport facilities, no school or hospital in the vicinity. Moreover, villagers are anxious that a proposed gas plant will spell danger both for them, and for the ancient tree.
But no one can remain gloomy for long with the promise of a bumper harvest hanging in the air. “The rich always manage to eat this fruit. This year, because of the abundance, prices will come down and even the poor will be able to afford it,” says Kalimullah loftily, adding however, with his fingers crossed, “If all continues to go well.”
