How the Sheherwali Jains Turned Mango Eating Into High Art

At Bari Kothi in Azimganj, Bengal, history is on display. Some in velvet and glass, others in memory, scent, and sounds. The opulence of the Sheherwali Jains lives in chandeliers and carved walls, their patronage of art, their taste for the refined, their dinner tables lined with silver and stories. 

A closer look at one such wall reveals a letter, dated 9th June, 1914, from the Prince of Wales. Framed beside polished wood and old portraits, it thanks the Dudhoria family for sending forty-eight of their finest Alphonso mangoes to Buckingham Palace. A reminder that even fruit, in Sheherwali hands, could travel like royalty. 

“Emperor’s New Fruit”

It’s said that Murshidabad (capital of undivided Bengal during the Mughal period), once grew over two hundred kinds of mangoes, about a hundred of which remain and few are still cultivated on scale, each with its own scent, skin, and ways of eating. Some were lined with milk at their roots for a creamier texture and taste, others swaddled in cotton wool to ripen just right. The most delicate were sliced with thin wedges of bamboo so as to never leave a mark on the flesh. What began as the “emperor’s new fruit” with Akbar became a symbol of status, taste, and sensibility once taken up by the Sheherwalis. 

Akbar’s love for orchards laid the roots of a mango-loving culture across his empire and he promoted the cultivation and crossbreeding of many strains of India's native mangoes and in Murshidabad, that legacy was taken forward by the Nawabs and then the Sheherwalis who took to nurturing their mangoes like heirlooms. Akbar’s political advisor, Abul Fazal recalls in his book ‘Akbarnama’, the care and concern with which mangoes were treated. 

A hundred ways to Mango 

The orchards of the twin towns. Azimganj and Jiaganj, continued to grow long after the nawabs had faded into history. But what began in the Mughal era as a royal indulgence turned into a tradition of cultivation by the Sheherwalis, marked by skill and creativity. New varieties were developed through careful grafting, sometimes using saplings of aromatic plants to shape the fruit’s flavour. These mangoes were hence signatures of the land, each with its own character. At the height of summer, grand havelis opened their doors for mango feasts where dozens of varieties were served with ceremony. For many families, it was a social calendar built around ripening schedules.

Each mango from Murshidabad came with its own name and nature. The Rani was favoured by queens for its early to ripen tendencies. Small with bright yellow skin and a soft, sweet bite, it was becoming of the queen to have the first batch. The Sadhulas, one of the sweetest of them all, have the flavour of the famous Calcutta Himsagar. The Gulabkhas ripen with a blush and smell faintly of rose petals, hence the name and Bimli, named after a hardworking maid, was golden and juicy, full of warmth. 

The preservation of the prized Kohitoor, so delicate it ripens only when swaddled in cotton, is often attributed to the Sheherwalis. It’s green-skinned and delicate, ripens slowly and is always handled with care. Champa carried the scent of flowers in its flesh, and fetched a high price for its richness. The Anaras, light in colour, had the slight tang of pineapple, its name a nod to etymological roots of the word “ananas” meaning pineapple in many Indian and European languages, borrowed long ago from the Tupi people of Brazil. 

Together, these varieties make up a kind of edible archive, tended over generations. 

There are correct and incorrect ways to eat a mango 

Preparing the mangoes was also a choreographed act, deliberate, and a thing of habit rather than instruction. Some were cooled in water before peeling, others left to ripen alone, wrapped in cloth, away from touch. Ripeness was judged by scent, not sight. And a mango ready to eat didn’t need announcing, it gave itself away, even in the middle of the night. 

Mangoes were washed, cooled, peeled, and cut with the kind of care usually reserved for precious things. Children gathered around low tables while women worked through bowls of fruit, their hands steady from years of repetition. Certain varieties were eaten plain, others cooked into thick curries with saffron and ghee. Raw pulp was stirred into lentils or tempered with Bengali spices. Soups, pickles, sweets, and even papad were made fresh through the season. 

The first raw ones of the season were used in kachcha aam chana ki kutti, a sharp, marinated pickle that sat at the edge of every plate. Kachche aam ka kheer, emblematic of the curiously unique cuisine of the Sheherwalis, is pale and silken, carrying the tartness of mango into slow-cooked milk. There was aam ka panna for the afternoons, and kachche aam ka launji, sweet, sour, and slow-cooked, for the evenings. Even sweets like aam ka modak appeared on special days. For savoury meals, the dried mango or amchur made its way into kheere ka khatta-meetha, a dish that paired cucumber with tang and warmth. Paniphal ka tarkari, made from water chestnut, and bhuna dal served with mango-spiced sides, filled out the table. Every dish held a little of the season, and often, a little of the orchard.

Only a fraction of these mangoes are still grown, though efforts are underway to preserve what remains. Each June, a Mango Haat is held to celebrate and showcase the fruit, and through it, a way of life that once bloomed with every harvest.