Pickle
Imagine a house, all white, inside and out, perched in a shady garden. White walls, white swing, furniture painted white, airy white curtains. A woman of many shades hides behind the white, though the world only sees a brilliant, beautiful and loving wife and aunt. This is my childhood vacation home, far from the cool green palms and blue ocean of my own home. Inside the white house, the summer afternoons are deathly silent. The heat is furious but the house, cleverly built with deep balconies and curious overhangs, keeps the worst of it at bay. Curtains made of vetiver are doused with water and keep the rooms cool. My grandmother and grand aunt snore genteelly in their darkened bedroom. It is a long nap they take each afternoon. The 10 year old me is soon bored and restless. That is when the pickle jars whisper my name. In the coolest part of the house, tucked away under a stairwell is the store room. Here, there is still an old fashioned ‘pinjru’ or food cupboard, with a fine steel mesh forming the sides and front of the case. It holds the conventional delicacies: the afternoon tea cake, the biscuits, this afternoon’s leftovers waiting for my uncle to demolish them at night. The pinjru is off limits. My grandmother keeps one gimlet eye on it at all times. She knows its contents down to the last sliver of cake and last crumb of butter biscuit.
Anyway, on these hot afternoons, sweet isn’t the taste I’m craving. My target lies gleaming red and shiny inside the large earthenware pickle jars lined up on a shelf just out of reach. There is a convenient foot stool though, its owner is my diminutive grandmother who uses it to reach anything over four feet high. It has to be picked up and gently placed under the shelf. Every afternoon, a different jar is under attack. This results in the interior levels remaining more or less the same and therefore, no suspicion is raised. The chosen jar is carefully placed on the table. It is heavy and I live in terror of dropping it. The brown flat lid is hard to untwist because every morning, my uncle’s task is to close all the jars as tightly as possible to avoid moisture creeping in and spoiling the pickle. I think he may be onto me because he takes childish delight in turning an extra tight twist on each lid.
The lid is off. The aroma of the pickle hits me straight in the face. The heavy bouquet of oil and chilli and vinegar makes the eyes water. The top layer is pure oil, red and gold. It hides the treasure underneath. A long spoon is needed to unearth it. If it is prawn pickle, a large dollop ensures that at least a dozen small prawns land in my bowl. I’m not interested in the masala which I quickly tip back into the jar. But if the pickle is fish or beef or fish roe, extra care has to be exercised. The fish, usually large chunks of firm fleshed rawas, has first been fried lightly before being immersed in the masala. It has slowly absorbed the vinegar and spices till it is barely holding itself together. A careless jab and the chunk will simply dissolve into the depths of the jar. So infinitesimal care is needed to extract a whole, gleaming chunk of thoroughly saturated fish. The fish roe too must be handled carefully, it is in its very nature to disperse in the medium, whether this is the ocean or the oily brine. The beef pickle is different in texture. The meat has almost dehydrated, like slightly chewy jerky. It emerges, dark brown and gleaming from a vindaloo-like pickling base. I’m not greedy. One chunk is plenty. Fingers licked clean, the jar carefully replaced, all that remains now is to whistle to the dogs, find my book and retreat to the hidden nook up in the roof. Once inside, no one can reach me, mainly because I’m the smallest summer guest in this house. The pickle is eaten very slowly, as much to prolong the delicious agony as out of a need to continually wipe a streaming nose and eyes. My grandmother has a heavy hand with the chillies. The dogs sniff at the bowl and turn away, sneezing and snuffling. They wipe their noses with a paw and watch from a distance as I spend the afternoon in pickled bliss.
I have a tender memory of my grandmother. She is short and plump, usually dressed in a house coat that reaches her little feet, her wispy white hair caught up in a baby bun, viciously held in place by five or six large bobby pins. Towards the end of the summer vacation, she stands in the store room, inspecting the contents of the jars. She shakes her head in genuine bewilderment and asks in a plaintive voice of no one in particular and the universe in general, “I just don’t understand it. I made the pickle just two months ago. Where has all the fish gone? Mani (addressing my grand aunt and her best friend), you do remember how large that rawas was? It took us all morning to clean it and cut it up. So where has it gone?” My uncle winks at me half threateningly and I make a quick and quiet exit before anyone sees the traitorous blush creeping up my face.