Brindabani Mango (বৃন্দাবনী আম), The Heritage Fruit Bangladesh Might Lose
Not everyone knows Brindabani mango (In Bangla language বৃন্দাবনী আম). Those who do—seek it out, often quietly. They don’t advertise. They don’t need to. This mango isn’t about trends or commercial hype. It’s about heritage. Family. Taste memory.
Brindabani mango is small, roundish, and fragrant enough to fill a room. When ripe, the skin turns deep yellow. Inside, the pulp is bright and clean-looking. The flavor leans balanced—sweet with a gentle tang. It stands apart. Not like Langra. Not like Fazli. Not like Khirshapat. Brindabani has its own identity.
It’s been growing quietly in Chapainawabganj for decades. Maybe longer. But few trees remain.
A Mango with a Lineage
The origin of Brindabani mango traces back to Malda, West Bengal. That part of India once included what is now Chapainawabganj. Historical ties run deep. According to lawyer and mango enthusiast Ananda Shankar Roy Chowdhury, the mango’s name likely links to “Vrindavan,” the spiritual center of the Gaudiya Vaishnav movement. The naming, some say, came from a devotee during the peak of the movement in ancient Gauda.
Brindabani mango trees are mostly found in older orchards. Not planted commercially. Not found in mainstream markets. Wealthier, more traditional mango orchard owners kept them for personal use—for family, close friends, or high-profile gifts. The variety was favored among zamindars and upper-caste Hindu-Muslim families.
This explains why you don’t see it everywhere. And also why those who know it are unwilling to let it vanish quietly.
A Quiet Legacy
Lawyer Roy Chowdhury recalls his father—Bhutu Ukil—sending Brindabani mangoes to his friend, fellow lawyer S.R. Pal. A seasonal tradition between friends. That kind of memory doesn’t fade. It’s passed down.
That’s part of what makes Brindabani different. It’s not just a fruit. It’s a ritual. A personal connection.
Farmer Rabiul Awal from Kansat shared a similar story. His great-grandfather, Haidar Box, brought two Brindabani saplings from Kolkata during British rule. He planted them in his orchard. Those original trees were cut when the land was divided. But Rabiul grafted new ones from them in 2004. The trees still produce fruit. He doesn’t sell much. Mostly, he gives to those who understand what it is. Others mistake it for some random local seedling mango.
Rare. Not Commercial.
That’s the issue. It’s hard to keep growing a mango that no one asks for. At Sekendar Chowdhury’s orchard in Chapainawabganj Sadar, there are still a few Brindabani trees. But orchard worker Shawkat Ali says few orchards have them now. The yield is low. New orchard owners don’t plant them. They want high-yield, off-season varieties. Not Brindabani.
Munzer Alam, an agri-entrepreneur, only discovered Brindabani last year. He bought one maund (about 37kg) this season. Some for his family, some for his shop. But he admits—it doesn’t sell to just anyone. Only people who already know about it buy it. Everyone else passes it up.
According to mango trader Rabiul, those who do recognize Brindabani are willing to pay more. The rest? They think it’s just some backyard variety.
What Science Says
At the Chapainawabganj Horticulture Center, two Brindabani trees still stand—estimated to be over 150 years old. But no saplings are propagated. Why? People don’t ask for them. So the nursery doesn’t grow them.
Faizur Rahman, a sub-assistant horticulture officer at the center, says farmers have shifted to high-demand commercial varieties—imported ones, off-season types. The same message comes from the Regional Horticulture Research Center: Brindabani isn’t popular, so it’s ignored.
That’s despite the numbers. Brindabani’s Total Soluble Solids (TSS) content ranges from 18 to 20. In plain terms, it’s a very sweet mango. It also has a strong, pleasant aroma, according to Deputy Director Md. Manzure Maola. A mango like this, he says, should be conserved. It’s not just good. It’s unique. The kind of cultivar worth crossing to create new high-quality varieties.
Is It Too Late?
This mango won’t survive through nostalgia alone. It needs action—propagation, documentation, maybe even legal protection. Farmers need incentives to keep growing it. Without that, Brindabani will fade out of the landscape and out of memory.
Fewer trees mean fewer chances for people to taste it. And if no one knows what they’re missing, no one will care.
In Chapainawabganj, people still talk about it. Some still taste it every season. But that number shrinks every year.
So the question isn’t just what Brindabani mango is.
The real question is whether we’re going to let it disappear.
