In Defence of The 'Mango Diaspora’: Why Diasporic Writers Succumb To South Asian Clichés

Salman Rushdie once declared that South Asian writers should follow this simple literary rule: “There must be no tropical fruits in the title. No mangoes, no guavas. None of those.” His advice is somewhat unorthodox. All writers have been told to read voraciously, or to write at least a thousand words a day, but the suggestion that we have to avoid fruit, of all things, seems to come out of left field. Yet, over a decade later, Rushdie’s words still resonate. He speaks to a creative dilemma that continues to plague diasporic writers — we’re obsessed with mangoes. 

Mangoes find their way into a frankly comical amount of diasporic art. A simple search for the word 'mango' on Goodreads yields hundreds of results, many authored by South Asians. From romantic coming-of-age stories like ‘The Mango Season’ by Amulya Malladi, to the action-packed ‘A Case Of Exploding Mangoes’ by Mohammed Hanif, and far beyond, our writing is quite literally ripe with the fruit. This trope also rears its ugly head in diasporic poetry, repeating itself so often that it has become somewhat of a meme in the literary world. The Twitterverse coined the term ‘mango diaspora poetry’ to satirise poets’ tendency to lean on the Alphonso as a metaphor for their heritage. Mangoes have become a literary device in and of themselves, acting as a symbol for a romanticised motherland. Today, sweet fruit juice and sticky fingers are considered as clichéd as “roses are red, and violets are blue.” 

This criticism isn’t limited to just mangoes either. Other stereotypical symbols of the South Asian experience, like chai, sarees, or peacocks, also fall under this overarching ‘mango diaspora’ umbrella. A popular series of Instagram reels by radio jockey and musical comedian Gaurika Khanduri, entitled “NRI Didi Making Music,” pokes fun at diasporic artists who sprinkle cultural buzzwords into their songs. The videos have entertained millions of viewers and added the term “NRI Didi” to our critical lexicon while making an apt commentary about how cultural references, when used without substance, feel cheap at best and exploitative at worst.

Obviously, this is about more than just overused metaphors. This great mango upset is a symptom of a larger frustration surrounding the exoticisation of South Asian culture. In the modern literary landscape, a new South Asian stereotype has emerged: the immigrant who dreams of their grandma’s gaon, where life was simpler and culture was homogenous. The mango– and the poetic lines written about how messily one eats its flesh, free from judgement as they hold its pit between their hands– is used as an expression of longing. However, the motherland these writers dream of is one removed from reality. Our home countries are beautiful and culturally rich, but they can also be vicious and difficult. 

Critics consider ‘mango diaspora poetry’ and its equivalents across other art forms to be a crutch, a cheap way to write about the immigrant experience without digging deeper into its truth. In her brilliant essay ‘On the Complexity of Using the Mango as a Symbol in Diasporic Literature,’ Urvi Kumbhat dives into the cultural significance and imperialist history behind the mango. Her words highlight how the poetic romanticisation of the mango, and therefore of India, is a fallacy. And yet, there’s no denying that our mangoes are the sweetest, that they’re embedded into our lives despite their violent underbelly.

Before I jump into the implications of ‘mango diaspora’ art or try to psychoanalyse NRIs as a collective, I must confess: I was once a ‘mango diaspora poet’ myself. Raised in the Philippines– the other mango capital of the world– and educated at an American school, the art I made growing up reflected my diasporic experience. The poems and short stories I wrote throughout my adolescence often centred on my struggles with assimilation, undoubtedly using trite, underdeveloped references to fruit, colonialism, and my grandmother in an attempt to express my internal conflict. While I now cringe at my melodramatic teenage musings, I also recognise the sincerity behind younger-me’s words. My writing wasn’t good, but my limited understanding of my culture and identity directed my language.

Mangoes may be overused in diasporic literature, but they’re also undeniably important to Indians both within the country and beyond. Alphonso mangoes felt like a magical delight when I was living in a country where we didn’t have access to them. When a friend or relative brought us mangoes after travelling to India, my family would gather around the dining table to relish their buttery goodness. They tasted so different from the slightly tart, sugary-sweet mangoes from the grocery stores near me. Some of my favourite childhood memories comprise the feeling of scraping my teeth against mango skin and sucking on a seed’s fibres to make the most of the rare fruit in front of me. Those moments hold weight, even if mangoes are a worn-out metaphor.

A critical interpretation of ‘mango diaspora’ art considers it a malicious distortion of the South Asian immigrant experience. After all, our homelands stand for much more than just sweet fruit or beautifully spun sarees. Misled nostalgia bathes these places in rose-tinted light, and this limited perspective results in writing that can be cringeworthy at best and downright offensive at worst. Edward Said’s cornerstone text, ‘Orientalism,’ makes it abundantly clear that even when the West glorifies pieces of Eastern culture, that romanticisation serves to other us. By playing into South Asian stereotypes, we other ourselves. When we look at ourselves through this orientalist viewpoint, our exoticism strips us of our humanity. This is a disservice to ourselves and our readers, denying them the rich, complex narratives that emerge when we embrace truth and nuance. Our homes aren’t strange, fictitious lands; they’re real and endlessly complex. 

However, I can’t help but empathise with the ‘mango diaspora.’ The tendency for some writers to lean on stereotypical symbols like mangoes speaks more to the diasporic identity and self-view than it does to their intentions. ‘Mango diaspora’ writing does feel authentic to its creators. The romanticisation of the motherland is often rooted in feelings of ostracisation in one’s host country. Their reliance on widely accepted, overplayed South Asian iconography is an embrace of the pieces of their culture they see celebrated en masse. 

We also can’t deny the positive responses that much of this writing gets. Even writers who are widely criticised for falling under the ‘mango diaspora’ umbrella, like Rupi Kaur, are beloved by many. There is a reason art is deemed subjective; every piece of writing, how it is produced and consumed, is a personal experience at its core. Twitter users may roll their eyes when they come across yet another poem about how South Asian parents serve their kids cut-up fruit in place of an apology, but another reader out there may see those words and feel seen. If mango diaspora poetry, stories, and more show us anything, it’s that we all have some more introspection to do. 

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