An Aroma Remembered, A Pickle Reborn

The mind has its own ways, its priorities and preferences, he knew. Why else would it think of pickles instead of pious thoughts or prayers at dawn? He wasn’t hungry; breakfast was hours away. It wasn’t craving for food, but simply the remembrance of a smell from the distant past.

He wasn’t too fond of his grandma because he sensed she wasn’t too fond of him. A tough, no-nonsense lady, a disciplinarian; she never wielded a stick, nor delivered a slap. But her tongue shot fiery flames, and her words singed, scalded, and burnt.

She had a mellifluous voice, and sang very well. Home-schooled, she could read the puranas. In long summer afternoons, she often sang to herself, usually from the Ramayana. Her favourite was the lament “Hey Banagiri, Hey Latagiri, mo kanta gale mruga maari.” She was fully immersed in her song, in Sita’s distress after the deceitful abduction by Ravana. She became Sita, and Sita’s sorrow became her own.

Purnamasi and Jogindra had lovingly named their first-born Ramachandra, hoping he would someday be the king of their household. Alas, that was not to be. They lost Ramachandra at eight to malaria, under tragic circumstances. Krishna had left Gopapura when he was eight!

Both grieved long, but the death of her beloved son left a wound in Purnamasi’s heart that never healed. After the customary rituals and mourning, life in their home slowly limped back to normal. Work in the household was so relentless from dawn till night that there was scarcely any private moment even to weep alone. Yet sorrow resurfaced, often unpredictably, years and decades later.

During summer afternoons, a few women assembled in Purnamasi’s courtyard veranda to break tol (mahua) fruit for oilseeds, or cut green mangoes for pickling. The task was manual, monotonous, and time-taking.

Once in a while, Purnamasi would sing Keshava Koili, the iconic Odia song of sorrow and loss, beginning invariably with a whisper and a sigh: gala putra bahudi naila — the son went away, never to return. All the women hushed to silence. Slowly, Purnamasi would sing each pada, all the thirty-four padas of Keshava Koili Chautisha. The other women, who knew the song by heart, joined in discreetly, reverentially, in chorus. The plaintive mourning filled the house, overflowed to the neighbourhood, and became an invisible but palpable stream of sorrow on the forlorn village street. Her personal grief became a communal sharing of loss. And who hadn’t lost someone dear?

In these moments, she was a different person, not the irascible, sharp-tongued ruler of her house.

She was not tall, but strong, and could effortlessly pick up from the chulha a large handi filled to the brim with hot, boiled paddy. A little slip or falter, the handi could fall and severely scald her.

He remembered her for these and many other things, but mostly for the sweet mango pickle she made every summer. Before the mangoes could ripen, occasional summer storms felled raw fruits which came home from the fields in bushels. Most of it went to make aambul; easy to make and store up to two years or more; and an item of daily use in curries—aambil, sour fish curry, and others. Aambul was also a popular side dish with basi pakhala.

Mangoes were diced, salt and turmeric added, and put out in the sun which sucked out the moisture, and cooked to make it supple. That was all. It was ready to be stored.

Making achaar—pickle—was another matter. It needed the necessary ingredients, and the skill. Not everyone could make the perfect pickle; but grandma could.

Pickle was a limited-edition delicacy, served only when she was in a good mood, or if a member of the family had aruchi—lack of appetite and disinclination to eat—after a bout of fever. A piece of her zealously guarded pickle sufficed to banish aruchi.

When the pulp was gently cooked—neither overcooked nor hard—she would add mustard oil and spices ground on the shil batta, the manual stone slab for grinding, into the pot. The patli continued to sit in the sun for the oil and spices to seep into the diced pieces. Then, she added jamain gud—liquid gud—pouring it out from a mathia, a tall earthen pitcher.

The magic began shortly thereafter, with the sun cooking the gud and evaporating moisture to ensure the pickle wouldn’t spoil for years. Not that it ever lasted that long. In years of abundant mango yield, the previous year’s sweet pickle was allowed to be exhausted with bonus pieces unexpectedly served—to children for good conduct, for cheerfully helping with household chores, and to adults for quid pro quo unknown to kids.

The patli sat in the middle of the open courtyard during the period it got the full glare of the afternoon sun, and shifted out of harm’s way when the cattle returned home in the evening. But when it was in the sun, anyone who passed by the patli was enchanted by the aroma wafting up from the pot. Many lingered a while longer to savour the enticing fragrance, but perish the thought of opening the thin cloth cover and sampling a piece. Grandma didn’t guard the pot, but should one take liberties with her achar-under preparation, all hell would break loose. Tempests, typhoons would visit the house and much damage would be done. Scars would remain forever.

So, the passersby passed meekly though greedily, and waited with the patience of yogis to someday savour the delicacy.

She made the best sweet mango pickle ever. He had not tasted anything better than her pickle.

Since the morning had begun with no thoughts of prayer but of pickle, he was seized with a fantastic idea.

How about making grandma’s pickle; recreating the delicacy from remembrance of its exotic fragrance, and nothing else. When grandma made her pickle, he was about eight years old. How could he have known the ingredients or the recipe, except that diced mangoes and liquid gud went into that delicacy?

He scanned YouTube which offered several recipes for sweet mango pickle—Nisha Madhulika, Odia mitha achar, Brahmapur mitha achar, and Chandrakanti’s Odia Foodies; the last one appeared to be closest to what grandma might have used.

In the market, he didn’t get Himsagar, the variety preferred by grandma for her sweet pickle. Not every variety makes the best sweet pickle. But he had to make do with what was available.

He followed Chandrakanti’s recipe for achar masala, carefully measuring the portions, and frequently pausing the video to ensure he didn’t miss a critical ingredient or unmindfully roast the kalajira; and ground it himself to ensure a rough texture, not too fine.

No liquid gud, nor the delicious lumps of gud once produced in the village. He used the packed jaggery bought online.

Then he pushed aside the video, and began the process. Would grandma have done this? He asked himself every now and then. Mercifully, the spouse was away at her kitty lunch, and he had free run of the kitchen. Cooking is like meditation; without full focus, you achieve no benefit or satisfaction.

When the spouse returned home, she asked, “What did you cook? It smells fabulous.”

After sampling a piece, she wanted more.

“Sorry, it’s a limited-edition delicacy. Only a few pieces would be issued per week.”

A fragrance remembered, a pickle reborn.

---