The jar lid

Summers meant pickles to me. My mother and her sisters would gather in veranda after completing their daily chores. Grandma would sit in the middle. Raw mangoes, chilies and lemons that were washed and dried would be brought down. I would sit by Grandma's side wit my eyes following every piece getting pickled. The aroma of spices and the sourness of lemons filled the air. On any other day, it would have made my mouth water but during those days, I would be engrossed by Grandma's warm smell that it wouldn't even cross my to lick the pickle, although I would do so after grandma left to wash her hands. She bossed around my mother and her sisters. When I was young, it was surprising for me to see my mother get reproached but Grandma never got angry with me. She would hum and sometimes even sing while making pickles. 

Then by the end of summers, the jars were opened. Then I couldn't resist myself, even while sitting in Grandma's lap. She would bring guavas to eat with lemon pickle, rice to go with chilly pickle and make pancakes to compliment mango pickles. My mother limited the amount of pickle I was allowed to eat because otherwise I would get pimples. Every time pickle was served, I was reminded was the time it was made. The chits-chats we had that day. Who was wearing what and the weather which most of the times would be rainy.

Last summer the jars were opened again, although a little late than every year. I didn't get the tingly feeling to lick the pickle. The room was quiet. It was like everyone was taking time to absorb the moment. Grandma had been dead since a month. It was about two days after we had our yearly ritual of making pickles, when we found her laying still in her bed. Every time the jar was opened, I would miss the warm smell.

And then one day, the last piece of the pickle was left. We all took a bite of it. Then the jars were cleaned and dried to contain the pickle for another year.