Raw mango, fish and the ides of spring

I did not think I could write another column on a Goan fish curry.

- Samar Halarnkar

I have often waxed eloquent about my ajji's (grandmother's) fish curry, my short-cut version, my mother's version, the original version—to name a few. The beauty of the basic Goan fish curry is that there are as many versions as your imagination.

My imagination was jostled recently by the arrival of spring in Bengaluru, and the spectacular flowering of the trumpet trees—white, pink and yellow—the roads beneath them transforming into radiant carpets of blossoms. The rain trees—those hulking giants imported from South America and boycotted now because of their demand for lebensraum—also did their bit, covering themselves in feathery pink and white.

We are privileged to see the offerings of the rain tree at eye level because one sprawls into our rooftop garden, a privilege in a city that has chopped down more than 80% of the trees it had since the 1970s. Bee-eaters and tits gambol in its upper reaches before our eyes, and iridescent butterflies excite the dulled hunting instincts of our ginger house tabby.

We acknowledge in hushed wonder the glories of the other flowers in our garden: Asian pigeonwing, hydrangea, Madagascar periwinkle, honeysuckle, butterweed, jungle geranium, bridal wreath, raat ki rani (sadly with none of its strong fragrance), madhumalti or the Rangoon creeper, the bleeding heart vine and the lilies—the last of them slowly dying out as spring begins to fade, and the heat and rain vie for supremacy.