The Mango Degree mystery: When PhDs and pickles collide

When Navin Malhotra first applied to Swarglok Pickles Pvt Ltd, the requirement was modest: tightening bottle caps at the end of a conveyor belt. The skills required were straightforward—resilient wrists, a tolerance for vinegar fumes, and a willingness to put up with the owner’s fondness for loud devotional songs during work hours. No one ever asked for a degree.

Nevertheless, Navin felt the urge to announce that he possessed a doctorate, not in chemistry or management, but in the peculiar discipline of Advanced Mango Studies with a specialisation in extra-spicy varieties. The HR officer tilted her head, uncertain whether this was a serious claim or an elaborate prank, but she recorded it all the same. Within days, the “PhD aura” worked its magic. Promotions followed briskly until the man from the conveyor belt found himself promoted to the CEO’s chair.

For some years, the factory ran on without any untoward incident. Staff called Navin ‘Doctor Mango’ with a curious mixture of reverence and amusement. Navin possessed incredible oratory skills, and his speeches comparing Karl Marx to lime pickle became legendary. Then came the question that rocked the boat. A curious junior employee asked whether any university in the world actually conferred a doctorate in mangoes. Searches revealed that the “International Academy of Tropical Fruit Metaphysics” appeared in no credible list. The institution was as elusive as unicorns and tax refunds.

Naturally, the employees grew restless. “Can we see the degree certificate?” asked one. “Just the title of the thesis?” ventured another. Or the convocation photograph? Even the canteen staff began speculating—if the pickles had a quality certificate, surely the CEO could show his.

But Navin remained calm. He declared that his degree was a private affair. Personal documents, he explained, were not subject to public curiosity. “My mangoes are sacred,”
he intoned, “untouched by public hands.”

Dissatisfied, some employees approached the courts. And here the spectacle turned surreal. Navin’s lawyer, with admirable imagination, told the judge that degrees were like a magician’s secret trick. Everyone assumes the magician has it, but revealing the trick spoils the wonder. It is intensely personal and private. The opposing counsel argued that if
the trick won the CEO’s seat, the spectators should have some proof of its reality. The judge ruled cleverly that the degree was of public interest but not in the public interest to disclose, allowing the magic to remain intact.

But the unease persisted. Employees whispered in the corridors: what was the need to lie about a degree when none had been demanded? And if the degree was fictitious, what about the accounts? The procurements? Even the secret recipe for the famous lime pickle might turn out to be imaginary.

The irony is sharper, they felt, because a degree certificate reveals so little. It does not disclose marks or ranks—it merely states that so-and-so has qualified. Most graduates are proud to display it. To conceal such a basic document suggests that there was, in fact, nothing to conceal—except the absence itself.

However, many employees started speaking up. They said, “Look, when someone uses private claims to justify their public power, privacy isn’t really privacy anymore—it turns into accountability.” Think about it: if someone says they climbed Everest and then uses that to get ahead in leadership, don’t you think the public has every right to ask if they actually climbed more than just a flight of stairs? When fiction gains power, it stops being a private daydream and becomes a public lie. Pretty logical, right? Many at the company agreed. But guess what? Nothing changed. The status quo is still stubbornly intact.

Navin still presides over his factory today, issuing instructions with characteristic gravitas as barrels bubble in
the background. The degree
remains invisible yet apparently protective, like a talisman that wards off inquiry. Employees have grown used to the absurdity, perhaps comforted by the idea that if reality can be pickled, it can also be conveniently forgotten.

Thus, the CEO with the invisible degree remains secure, a reminder that in the great jars of public life, facts and fictions can ferment together until few can tell the difference. Vinegar preserves both truth and lies—sometimes for years.

(The author’s identity is withheld, much like the CEO’s purported degree – both shrouded in mystery and discretion. This is a satire meant to entertain. Characters are imaginary)