The Gates of Djannat

My father often claimed that he had been outside the gates of Djannat.

We did not have a mango tree in our grounds of the house in Labourdonnais Street, and in those days you did not buy mangoes in the Grand Bazar, but many friends and neighbours with a few trees with a choice of varieties from Maison Rouge, Dauphiné, Adèle etc, would regularly send us a basketful. With the green ones, Maman made achaars or pickles, and we ate them in salads with grated carrots.

We children would be given a nice ripe one, and we would eat it by biting the top off, softening the fruit by rolling it between our hands, and we would suck the pulpy juice, gradually tearing the skin out. One’s hands would be dripping with sticky juice, until all that was left was the stone with fibres of the fruit still to be sucked dry. Adults preferred to have their mango peeled and sliced and eaten after a meal.

My father loved his juiced. Maman would set aside two or three attractive ones and give them more time to ripen and soften. When she thought their time had come, she would peel them, and grabbing each in turn in her hands she would squeeze them, collecting the thick juice in a bowl. We children would watch this mouth-watering scene in wonder, as the level rose. That was half the work done.

Ibrahim Cassimally had travelled the world, and had learnt many wonderful things to improve his and our life-style, and had given precise instructions to Maman. Before embarking on the juicing process, Maman had peeled a fair-sized onion, and the time had come to fry them in ghee. That had to be done right. The end product had to be crisp, dry and golden-brown, done exactly right.

When father came back home in the afternoon, he would rest in the fauteuil à voile or deck chair, and Maman would pour the juice in a bowl and sprinkle the crispy onions on top. The old man would nod gratefully. He would sit forward, look at the offering, smiling with anticipation. He would then noisily suck in one sip. He would keep this in his mouth, turning it round, open wide his eyes the expression on his face like Sainte Bernadette when she beheld the apparition of the Virgin Mary. He would then look at his children, noisily breathe in some air, and swallow the juice slowly. He would then speak. Always the same words:

“Children, I’ll tell you this, tasting this rass, which only your mother knows how to make, it’s like I have just stood outside the gates of Djannat.” Rass means juice.

He would then ask us to come and each in turn have a small sip, to see what he meant.

pic of mangos from Unsplash, by Jacqueline Brandwayn