In a Pickle

IT was March. The summerbreeze caressed theneem leaves. Inside, Amma was preparing dosa for breakfast. I sat at the table with a growling stomach and a drooling tongue. I asked Amma if we had some of the mango pickles that Ammamma had got for us on her last visit. Sadly, we had run out of it.

- Priyanka Kavish

Ammamma’s handmade pickles were to die for. Even though Ammamma made a variety of pickles, I loved her mango pickles the best. It was just perfect, spicy and tangy. The raw mango chunks were juicy and soft and it wasn’t oily. I asked Amma if she could prepare the pickles the same way as Ammamma did, and she said, “Not at all. I can’t even make it taste like a pickle.”

Having lived more than half her life in the city, Amma never had a chance to learn all the traditional recipes that Ammamma knew to make.

“Amma, why don’t we take a trip to our village? My vacations are on, dad is on tour and you’d have so much fun visiting Ammamma too. Besides, I’ve never visited my native place and it would be nice to explore the quiet life,” I told her.

A wide smile spread across Amma’s face. It had been over 20 years since she had visited the village, and she was more than excited to go back to her roots.

D-day arrived. We boarded our train to Vijayawada. Since it was an overnight journey and Amma didn’t trust train food, she had packed a simple meal of rotis, potato sabji and ‘lemon rice’ for our dinner.

I sat by the window and soaked in the beautiful sights that breezed past us. Every station we stopped at, had idli sambar and