The marvellous, beautiful thing that is my tongue, I rediscover it every mango season. Post every monsoon I forget what distinguishes one kind of mango from another. All that's left behind are vague ideas and words, I present to you the human brain. It's only when the mangoes come back that I know what I mean by the firm yellowness that is the Baiganpalli, or the bristly textury feel of the Gulabkhus, or the way you can taste the smell of the Himsagar rather than the other way round. I find out why a Dussehri is earthy and a Langra is a mango with the temperament of mustard, and I still don't know what the deal with a Chausa is, I never do, but there is always that little victory where I take a bite from a slice and have a this-is-what-this-is moment. Like a connoisseury epicureanish thingie, I can't explain. I'm beyond beyond happy today because I've eaten nothing else for dinner.