I am not sure what my sentiments were the first time I heard the idiom, ‘in a pickle’ in my English grammar class in school. Certainly not what it implied, I am sure, I must be dreaming of my mother’s maternal home in a tiny little hamlet in India. Transitioning from the humdrum of our city life as soon as the vacations ended, to board a rickety bus, adamant on sitting near the window, as the harsh summer sun alternated with the canopied shade of the huge trees on the highway enough for an afternoon nap, my legs stretched open on my father’s lap and my head resting safely in my mothers. 

​

Eager and curious, like children my age (I was still a few years away from my teens), my greatest motivation was the discoveries I would make there—new flavours delighting my taste buds through the various pickles she served with our meals. Nani, as I fondly called her, could pickle almost anything remotely edible under the sun and preserve its goodness in a bottle. It always amazed me; my childlike eyes would widen in disbelief, and my tongue would tingle with gastronomic anticipation.​​

​

Glass jars of various shapes and sizes, called martabans, were stored carefully under a decrepit wooden single bed, a piece of furniture passed down the ages, a heirloom of sorts. I still remember getting down on my knees on the red stone floor to look underneath as she would guide me towards her creations. “Which one do you want to have,?” she would say in colloquial Hindi, her eyes twinkling, a strangely mysterious smile on her face, dimples deep into her cheeks, as if she was the cartographer trying to map my interests. 

​

From raw mangoes to lemons, green and red stuffed chillies, gooseberries to vegetables like bitter gourd, as well as jackfruit, the world down there was a gastronomic kaleidoscope of sorts, leaving me salivating, drooling and rife with excitement. This included the simple salty, sour lemon pickle with carom seeds, a sweet version of the same and a spicy mango pickle drenched in mustard oil and packed with signatures spices such as fennel, red chillies and turmeric that was passed down to my mother.

​

However, my mother had a simple 3 ingredient pickle recipe that has been a favourite in our household, one that we have grown up with, a raw mango pickle with just three spices- asafoetida, salt and red chilli powder, a staple in our lunch box with paratha (Indian flatbread) and sabzi all through school. It’s USP- absolutely no oil. No, no, we did not believe in healthy eating then! The pungent smell of asafoetida, commonly called hing, a very strong spice in the pickle was its signature, certainly not for the faint-hearted.

​

Although it is used sparingly in Indian cuisine, in this pickle it sings mellifluously, blending seamlessly like in a virtuoso’s cherished composition. Sharing lunch boxes in school introduced me to a simple lemon pickle, this one a particular hill variety, very citrusy and fruity unlike the normal one, called Galgal  that is simply preserved with salt and chilli powder, so much so that you bite into its tangy goodness with no accompaniment!

​

I remember finishing an entire jar of mango pickle while we were staying as guests at someone’s house for a few days, the lady’s kindness towards us children clearly overflowing. However, not all acts of sharing come with good intentions, as I once realised when my mother received a jar of bitter gourd pickle from someone she believed had given it to her out of spite. So convinced was she of this that she forbade us from eating it altogether. Why would anyone do that? wondered the child in me.

​

Perhaps it should have been sweeter, I assumed. Like the winter favourite—carrot, cauliflower, and turnip pickle—a delightful blend of sweet, sour, and salty flavours that I learned to make after marriage. It was a first for a novice like me, especially with the internet abounding in recipes of every kind under the sun. Today, a plethora of packaged delights line supermarket shelves, promising nostalgia and reverie in a glass jar—something we reach for in the hope that it will fulfil a purpose that goes far beyond mere sustenance.

​

Over time, I have come to relish packaged Gongura pickle—sour and tangy—which I was surprised to learn is made from leaves! Another favourite of mine is banana flower pickle, prepared from the outer florets of the banana flower. Now, who could have imagined a floral pickle!

​

New-age pickles and accompaniments to dishes that are not traditionally part of Indian cuisine include gherkins, jalapeños, pickled onions, sauerkraut, and salsa dips, each taking us on a sensory expedition of sorts. However, while they certainly tickle the taste buds, they fail to evoke a memory—a time when someone who loved or cared for you shared a pickle that felt like a hug.

​

At our home, my mother does not make pickles very often anymore—only small batches of sweet gooseberries preserved in jaggery and a simple lemon pickle that she manages whenever I come to visit. There are no elaborate spices, just simple preserves that find their way onto our plates as we share a meal together. She asks, “Do you like it?” and I nod in the affirmative. It is an accompaniment made by her hands, imbued with a certain je ne sais quoi that I cannot quite define. Perhaps time will reveal its secret. Or so I imagine.