My Grandma's pickle jar

My Grandma's pickle jar

"Where is that? Where have you hidden that this time, granny?”, I would call out to my granny as I enter, whenever I visited her. 

The long hours of travel, the exasperating hot sun, lurching tongue craving for water, droopy tired eyes strict disciplinarian mom with disapproving looks could do nothing to stop me from nagging my grand mom just to get my then favourite, childhood obsession— the pickle jar, from one of the topmost shelves of my grand mom's dingy, smoky kitchen. 

My grand mom's kitchen used to be my childhood's treasure hunt hotspot! It would always charm me into fishing out the various antique pieces which had been hoarded by my grand mom— half were the heirlooms of her rich tradition and half were the sheer portrayal of her ever growing craze to hoard antique pieces. 

This magnificent heap of treasure included— brass mortar and pestle, flower edged wooden churner, peacock shaped brass cutter, coconut-scraper, bowls and spoons of different shapes and sizes, vintage black steel colander, etc.,  Among all these eye-catching pieces would be my grandma’s pickle jar! 

It was just a container to store her homemade pickle— the tangy mixture of seasonal vegetables, salt, spices, vinegar and mustard oil. But for me, a creepy child with suspicious hoarding disorder, it seemed to be a treasure. 

My day at my grand mom's house would be meaningless without that. The folks at home used to admire the divine taste of my grand mom's pickle but I used to fall for the various pickle jars she used— bought and maintained with absolute care. They seemed more than mere containers. They were the toys that topped my kitchen toy set. I cherished them the most as an inheritance from my grand mom. They were the tokens of my grand mom's love for me. I still remember the glee in my eyes whenever I would witness the jar being emptied so that I could have it as my own— perhaps as a rice pot during the playtime with my playmates. 

The spotless smile on my grand mom's face while giving the emptied, well-rinsed pickle jar to me would double, triple and multiply my joy. 

I don't think that the sort of childhood bliss I used to feel can be replicated through the virtual kitchen games available in plenty online. As there is no grand mom to show love; no time and patience to wait; no pickle jar to be hidden and sought.