Of Women And Pickles.

By Avipsha Kar

Maya's immense brown eyes followed the flowing glitter in the jar like a moth. Sparkling golden with hints of green squeezed against the glass, exhaling as if alive. Ripened bars of mushy mangoes created a juicy pressure in between the layers, concocting a preciously sour flavour. On top of it all laid the giant lid, heavy and polished, its intimidating presence oppressing the compulsion happening beneath it. The hot summer day seemed to have made the events around her lazy and slow. Shouts boomed from oceans beneath, like hums of shuffling sand.

"I've told you before, that girl is a mess. Have you seen the condition of her books? The pages are rotting inside of—"

The achaar was her grandmother's pride. Each day, at the hawk of noon, she would open the solid lid and shake the jar "to air it all out". Next, her frail wrinkly arms would grab a wooden spoon and stir the stickiness sporadically. At last, after a tired sigh, she would collecting her thin silver hair into a low bun with whatever piece of string Maya would hand her; then take a soft white fabric to cover the moving insides before placing the block of stone on top of them. Such drama always thrilled Maya, especially when her grandmother would promise to let her taste the magic once she passed away. 

"Maya, do you know how long it takes to make an achaar?"

"A day?"

"Silly girl! It takes years, or the fermentation would break."

"I know, Dashu, I know. But listen, look at her grammar! The teacher said—"

"Grammar won't fix our hospital bills. Look at Dhananjay's son, such a wonderful lad! Why couldn't we try for a son? Who is going to look after you when you are weak like ma? I take care of her as a son. You think Maya can?"

"Listen, I understand, but just listen—"

"I've been listening to you for the past five years, Menoka. When have you ever listened to me? —"

Maya's results weren't as good as her mother had hoped for. Hence the oscillation between her parents - both on either ends of what has already happened. They buzzed around her little head, adult words all jumbled together like that assorted jar of goodness she could not stop thinking about. Her little tongue danced around the growing ball of spit in her mouth. No matter the gulping - her gums still ached to chew on the hard strips of the mango treasured in that box. “When can I taste it, Maya?” Radha had asked, when they were both skipping stones and giggling. “You can’t!” she had goaded, “it is only for the men, and me!” 

"Maya!" Her father grasped her plithe arm like a lion pounces on its prey. 

*

Menoka's days were filled with chores that would leave her soul impoverished. Her once soft hands were now rough like chips of stone, her full mass of black hair a thin braid of a few strands. Her eyes used to be a marvellous shade of brown, found on the barks of tremendous trees and polished new walking sticks. They grew to be an ugly colour, found on the rotting lotus leaves neglected and avoided in the little dumping pond on the edge of the village. It is said a body of a little girl was found afloating in the mass of junk and goo last year.

Menoka's cracked heels stood on the backyard with a sense of duty and custom. Her strong arms plucked the wood apple off the branches easily. They were ripe and ready to be had, some oozing the orange seeds from little fissures on the surface. The rich spicy aroma of the fruit attracted several crows who screamed pathetically when more and more of the sweet balls were taken from their tree. They were heavy in her palms, perfect and promising.

Menoka's mind were on several little things that afternoon. The moist wind that blew the tall shivering palms along the border, the urgent whispers between the mango and the neem who shared the same ground, or the just washed sarees on the line which were under the threat of being drenched once more - even the slow, majestic rumble of the clouds - none provoked her to think of anything else. 

Other than her incessant worries for dinner, two primary pains choked her thoughts from spilling. 

Firstly, the mango achaar. Her Highness was sat high atop the creeky wooden shelves in the kitchen. The wooden slab carrying her was about to break anytime, and could only withstand the extreme weight due to the reliable nails dug into the peeling wall by her husband. That achaar was the pride of the family, the only honour which the men would wage a war to protect. A crown in the midst of poverty, Dashu would exclaim to anyone on the streets, "Maa's mango achaar is still on the go, almost a five now!"

The achaar had no competition in the village, Dashu made sure of it. Menoka's imli achaar was thrown out to the dumpyard. Maya's sticky hands from tasting the achaar of a neighbour received the cane. Even a simple chatni was not exempt from hearing curses and sarcasm. "The women on our side have the patience to create a whole jar of achaar for years. Such is a rich legacy. You won't find this in any other blood, actually. Who has the temperament anymore? I never found it in Menoka. Anywho, Nanda was asking about that achaar again today. Seems like the whole village will be present on your shraddha, maa, to taste that magic!"

Dashu's mother would trill in satisfaction. Menoka would burn in shame. At times, the sheer obsession with the dish seemed to her…strange. What was in that mango achaar that created a rift so great between her and her household? Why was a jar of fruits barred from wasting given more preference than her own existing self? The village women would call out a “How are you, Menoka?” before bending the conversation to the talk of the achaar and condiments of the like. Her husband would moan out “Maa, is the achaar ready?” in his grating sleepy voice while caught in dreams. Her daughter would giggle in her lap and talk of all sweet ways she would eat that magic when she could taste it at last.

Her daughter. Eight year old, silly Maya. Her little body was not enough to carry all the imagination her sharp brain would come up with. All sorts of variety were available – from the rain being the cry of the gods to the sun being their torchlight. Once, she clutched at the frills of Menoka’s threadbare saree and refused to let go until she had negotiated with little Maya’s shadow to stop following her. It was this unique side of Maya which made her mother be hopeful for her future. Really, Menoka had tried everything in her hands to ensure her daughter’s future be protected from unnecessary burdens. In the city, she had once heard an urbanite exclaim, there were machines to wash the clothes and warm the water on winter mornings. If Maya could reach that side of the land – the side where only the privileged could step a foot in – Menoka would be at peace. Maya would become like the sahebis, with a car and sunglasses, and Menoka’s days of toil would come to an end.

But Maya seemed to be inconsistent with her mother’s plans. Her small mind could never grasp the concept of school or good grades. Her companions and she would rather skip the classes to feed the cows at a local barn or steal the apples from the neighbour’s lawn. Her feeble legs carried her thin body like the wind – she glided between the bushes, jumped over the straw hedges, climbed the trees with an ease akin to a monkey’s and skipped down with equal efforts, arms full of red globes. Slanted sunlight would dance in her brown hair like flickers of flame, bruised feet would paddle the cycle fast and then slow, afternoon siesta would be had under the giant bunyan with tummies full and souls satisfied. 

This soul of hers, who acted like she had made the universe and hence must conquer and vanquish, was not one who would ever be caged in books or the blackboard. Menoka’s otherwise stoic heart had moved the first time she understood this. Yet, constant fights with Dashu or pleadings with a confused indifferent Maya did not deter her from trying, in the least. But when Maya started to stay at home just to sit on the mud floor and stare at the achaar – left in the shadows on top of the kitchen like a firefly beckoning one home - instead of running with the other children and claiming the sky, Menoka’s heart broke. 

She would not confess this to anyone, but Menoka – the constant, firm woman that she had to become – had one…desire. Not a wish, which if left unfulfilled would have added to the innumerable lines on her face, forgotten amongst the swarm. No, those days of unchanging disappointment were over – Menoka did not wish anymore. She…desired. On hot summer days, when no peace was found in meals of spice and flavor, her heavy eyes would find themselves on the achaar. There…just in reach. Golden, incandescent, glimmers of pearl bubbling and inviting. The achaar had begun to emit a delicious scent in the air…syrupy and tart. Flies buzzed around in the kitchen in hopes of finding that flower of pleasure, while Menoka bit her lips and gulped down the rest of whatever she had been having for lunch that day. If only she could have just one slice of that gummy mango…with daal and bitter cumin seeds…some curry leaves, pungent and taken from the garden, raw peppers, and sizzling mustard oil poured on the white rice hot and steamy…devoured in hidden gasps and hungry moans, rice and yellow ringing the mouth like blood stains a lion’s snout…starving and ravenous…the sleep which would come in the afternoon would be so sweet, so full, so satisfactory…

No, no. That achaar – cursed, ominous achaar – was just for the “men of the house”, as Dashu’s mother had reminded her again and again. “Make sure it touches no plate of a woman’s, Menoka, I am telling you. This is only for the men, for their hard work and whatnot. Maya may have a piece or two – she is young – but no one else. Especially not you, you greedy wench! Always eating, what an olokkhi you are…”

Evil woman! So proud of her achaar! What else could she accomplish in her life other than that jar of mumbo-jumbo? Menoka would not want even a drop of that garbage juice anyway!

The clouds spat, and then rushed down in floods of forgiveness. The frogs croaked from under fleshy pumpkin foliage. Sparrows tweeted from within the dim caves of the mango tree. Puddles of water danced in relief and swelled quickly. The sound of trickling pipes and dripping leaves consumed the entire hubbub of the village. All that could be heard and seen was torrents of rain, rain and rain.

“Menoka! You calamity! The sarees are drenched! Menoka? Menoka! Where is that woman of misfortune? Do I not get to rest my old bones even for a day?”

But Menoka was already in the kitchen, cutting open the wood apples on the old boti. Her arms shook with exertion, her breath came out in short puffs, her eyes determined and focused. The pale saree clung to her sweaty forehead, wet and transluscent, soiling her sindoor and big red bindi.

They would have a sweet ghol of that fruit that afternoon, and for many such afternoons to come.

*

Gandhari was not blind, nor did she choose to be one. She could see perfectly fine – long distance and short, up to the sky and down on the dirt. No, no. Her eyesight – apart from some moments of blur, which must be because of the excessive heat, cursed summers! – was sharp and steady. 

With bony clawed fingers, she combed through the few white strings on her otherwise bald head with precision and utmost care. Her weakened elbow shook from hanging in the air too long, but she was immersed in the routine. Freshly clean from a dip in the village pond, she was sat before the foggy mirror in her son’s bedroom, smelling of damp and chandan. The face which stared back was that of a dried raisin, with a pair of carved bulbous eyes, blinking slow and obviously. Her mouth was shrunk into a creased hole ringed with darkness. The rest of her body – from the bamboo-like neck to the dimpled joints of her feet – was covered by a large overflowing white saree. Somehow, her vision would turn hazy at this exact moment every day. Those oversized eyes, then, would close in a breathy wink, while the mouth would exhale a blow. Cursed, cursed summers! Never letting her see what she looked like now!

Gandhari was thirteen when she first stepped a foot in the shamble they called home. She couldn’t remember how she had looked back then, but the whispers still rung in her ears like bells of a temple – 

“So fragile, so delicate!”

“Such brilliant eyes, like heaven’s gates!”

“Thank god, they at last have a lokkhi in the household now!”

She had never been her husband’s favorite, nor her mother-in-law’s. At fourteen, she had her first daughter who died of neglect. At fifteen, she had her first son who died while suckling her breasts. Doctors claimed it was milk poison. At sixteen, she had her first miscarriage. At seventeen, she was forgotten like the dust that forgets to be dusted. She lived in shadows and corners then, in nooks and crevices. Her body had become a mass of nothing and everything. Her face had already turned crooked and inconsistent. Her jaw used to hang from the chin, a gaping maw of nothingness. Nothing, nothing. She looked on.

Gandhari believes that two things changed her life. Two blessings, which had saved her from eternal emptiness. Dashu came first.

It was summer when she learned she was pregnant again, at twenty-three, when her lopsided figure started to gain extra weight. She had him in the beginning of summer next year – the only son and child of the damned household. Like one would find a trunk of gold from the ugliest of closet, Dashu came out of her. Dashu, her light. Dashu, whose shadow Gandhari made shelter of. She could not be her father’s daughter. She could not be her husband’s wife. 

But she could be Dashu’s mother.

Next came her culinary enthusiasm. She was Dashu’s mother, a mother of a son. Her palms held and felt all sorts of vegetable and meat. Her gaping mouth closed around hot broth to check the taste. Her non-existent nose popped now and then to smell the curry-thick air of the kitchen.

Her name spread out in the village. Gandhari, the crazy woman, has one son but cooks for a hundred. Gandhari, the bent witch, has magical hands which stir away at her pot. Gandhari, the poor fated wench, has the gift of god resting on her senses. Gandhari, the calculative wife, invites even stranger to taste her making. Gandhari, Dashu’s mother, is the perfect ginni every wife should aspire to be. 

She did not shed a tear when her husband died, but the first drop fell when she was barred from tasting her own meals. That maacher kalia, with pillowy soft potates soaked in acrid cumin, oily red paste coating the buttery fish, or the mutton kosha, with hot and stretchy pieces of meat swimming in the brown fat, brimming with roasted garlic and spiced onions, all that goodness forbidden. All for a dead husband.

The village women had shaved her head. Her wedding bangles were broken right on her wrists, shards of glass cutting skin. Her sindoor was rubbed off with vengeance, her coloured saree ripped like paper. “This is ritual”, the women claimed, as bitter neem leaves were shoved into her mouth in mounds. “Must be karma, to be widowed this young!” She was left barren. She looked on.

But nothingness did not come this time. She had Dashu, her everything. Silken soups now filled the gaping mouth of Dashu, and he used to take, take and take. Nostalgic crisps, creamy chews and bitter syrups, all were gulped and belched. It sucked the marrow out of bones, that mouth. Gandhari filled herself with that sight.

So many years have passed between then and now. Dashu had earned his first salary and bought a new korai for his mother. Dashu had raised his hand and struck her on the face when she burnt the dinner that day. Dashu had married an uneducated beast just to have a daughter. Dashu had spent the nights after bemoaning his fate to her. All this time, Gandhari stayed like the mother she was supposed to be. Patient, persistent. She even liked to claim – wise. 

She saw. Watchful, like a vulture. She saw. Her eyesight was alright. She was not blind.

It begins with a tick in the bones. That familiar feel of turning into a furniture. Gandhari’s skin sagged. Her hideous demeanor ran like water, pooling around wherever her skeleton jutted. She felt like a rotting porridge, left under the sun. Abandoned.

She had to play the last strike, ad to regain whatever dignity she could accumulate out of her butter and oil. She made herself achaar – physically and mentally. Her claws peeled the mangoes like a knife. Her eyes measured the process in its sockets. Her tongue licked the taste off slick fingers and gummy spoons. Her mouth – that gaping hole – sewed its own legacy:

“This achaar will be my best creation, just you wait, Dashu! Serve this to the men on my funeral…serve them this. Just you wait, just you wait!”

“Oh Manohar! Come to my funeral, have the achaar! What other occasion can I have? My son is married, and bouma claims that the granddaughter must not be married off before at least eighteen! You think I would live that long?”

“I iced the mangoes first. Yes. They will taste extra raw, a very sultry flavor. Oh…the salt is perfect too! I had pickled the juice with dried chillies – I dried them myself! Not at all store bought! Come to my funeral to have a taste!”

The villagers believed her. Dashu believed her. That achaar – still alive and glimmering – breathed. 

That was almost five years ago. That fateful day would arrive anytime now, Gandhari was aware. But she was not scared of death – what is death to a woman already gone? – she was worried about Dashu’s reputation. By god, let the achaar be the finest in the world! Let her son bask in his glory! All those lousy village men…not even half of Dashu’s manliness resides in them…cowards. Just like his father…cowards.  And those women…lecherous, undeserving! Always wanting to lure her son! Jealous infiltrators! Let them know on whose breast Dashu had suckled! Gandhari, Dashu’s mother! 

God, let her have that pride! 

Gandhari had two perfect eyes, god, but she would be ash when the time would come. Let her, please, let her see even then! Clearly, as she always could! As she did, even now!

Standing on her wobbly knees, she trudged forward into the dim lit dining room in search of her son, clutching at smooth walls and knobs of furniture. She settled at the table, instantly drawn by the savory smell, and started preparing the silverware. Where was Dashu? Curse the summer! Her son must be hungry... Oh, there he was! Right in the middle of the glaringly hot room! Oh summers, making her bleary eyed sometimes… – she had heard right! He had been shouting at his good-for-nothing wife! Served her right, that woman, soaking all the kurtas and sarees under the rain, wretched woman – 

A slap and bang resounded in the room as Menoka was brought down to her knees. Gandhari looked away, her cupped palms loading hot rice onto Dashu’s lunch plate. 

*

It came suddenly, like it always does. 

Kalbaisakhi crawled on the sky like vipers, splattering the earth with venomous storms and winding floods, all in one night. The coconut trees at distance arched and bowed. The enormous banyan shuffled its hanging roots like cracking whips. Green mangoes slipped on wet soil like babies out of a mother’s arms. The clouds tormented, the winds fled. 

Darkness still obstructed daylight the next day. But what prolonged the night for Dashu and his family was not the lack of morning brilliance, but the absence of the sound of clinking bells and shrill ulus, generally performed by the matriarch at five o’clock every morning. When the three opened their sleep consumed eyes, it was already six.

A quick visit to the little thatched room outside their own ramshackle, where Gandhari had decided to move after declaring that she could not live with the “olokkhi” anymore, proved ominous – the roof had let through sticks of bamboo and bits of brick. Soaked hay lay around a shivering mass on the cot. Gandhari, a lump of white cotton, shook like a wet kitten curling onto itself.

As Dashu and a few others carried her to the village hospital, Menoka and Maya stood by the compound gate, one solemn while the other quite roused. Menoka, the deliberate woman she was, started to count the necessary items required for a successful shraddha, all the while keeping thoughts of a potential freedom at bay. Her tired eyes examined the shiny brown head of a smaller Maya clinging to her like a monkey pulling on ropes. Maya, her sweet child Maya. At least she could taste that achaar at last.

 Maya knew of this too. What does death matter to a child just born? 

Dashu returned around an hour later. “Maa is alive. She is to stay at the hospital for two days.” His quiet clarity told Menoka to contact the village pandit shortly. His undemanding gaze and easy smile let Maya know that the achaar would come soon. Very soon.

Gandhari passed away at two in the morning. The entire village crowded around the gates with sulk and hope. Gandhari, the great radhuni, was gone. She left a taste of her legacy behind.

*

The heat was blinding. Dashu had decided to not follow any funeral custom. What would the use be? His mother was dead – and he was just so grieved…no, no need for any elaborate mourning period.

The lack of one put immense weight on Menoka. Arranging the food for nearly fifty men within three days was a burden her thin body could only feel helpless about. The pandit had handed her a list of items to be bought for the shraddha – white bedclothes, new pair of shoes, an umbrella – with garlands and basket full of fruits. Dashu did not care – no, he was too busy bringing down the jar of gold from the top shelf. He handled the smooth glass delicately, wiping the outside with a clean white piece of rag, cooing and crooning. In that dark corner of the kitchen, the achaar shone as the sun. A ball of fire in the midst of charred surrounding. Maya buzzed about his legs, licking lips in anticipation.

 All Menoka could do was slave away in boiling conditions. It felt unreal.

The day of the shraddha arrived. 

Villagers took turns to put garland on an ancient picture of Gandhari placed in the courtyard. Sweet perfume of rajanigandha permeated the stench of sweaty bodies. The men roared in laughter and clapped hands in glee. Some shook their head and sighed in disappointment, only to ask if the achaar was ready. The women stood outside the walls, peeking over to throw jealous eyes at the party. 

They pulled out a bed sheet from Menoka’s wardrobe without permission and sat themselves like crows over a dead rat. “Boudi, hurry up! We are all starving!” What does death matter to hunters?

As Menoka tried her best to serve all the men on her own – no one stepped forward or even offered a helping hand – Dashu sat down before all of them as a guru on a stool, and started the tale of his mother’s legacy. 

No one took notice of Maya.

The jar of pickles glowed in the dark.

Little Maya could not wait any longer.

Dressed in a white frock which grazed her ankle like a shroud, she stood on her tiptoes and pulled at the jar with her slippery fingers. The bulk resisted at first, but slowly started to move left and right, marching forward. Ants which had lined the wall to sneak into the achaar stood on guard as their treasure danced away, towards the very end of the counter top. Maya’s tongue was out in concentration, brows dipped and dripping. One slice – she had promised herself – just one slice of that mango. That ichor which stained the teeth golden, just one taste. There it was! There, there…slowly advancing with its monstrous body…staring down at Maya like gods from heaven…engulfing her in the shadow of the late afternoon sun…slimy bare fingers scratching at it…tip over, tip over! Let Maya catch you! 

The temperature intensified.

Spit flew from Dashu’s mouth as his dry, hungry lips threw out manly words of greatness for his mother. “The perfect woman! Deserving of a son like me! She could cook with both hands simultaneously, how many of your wives can? Brilliant woman!” His eyes were glazed, his face pinched to concentration. Nostrils flaring, he was the magnificent boar chasing its target with its tusks. The men were hypnotized, staring at him with awe and veneration. The rice served on banana leaves grew cold before them. “That achaar, the symbol of a masculine patience only found in certain women! Sweet like a lady, it shall taste so pure! ‘Dashu’, she used to say, ‘claim this achaar voraciously! Share it with the men!’ and who am I to say no?”

Menoka stood aside. The stuffiness of the room was smoldering. Her stomach growled ravenously. Was any of this…normal? She did not know. Her body ached, her muscles strained. But there it was again! That desire…burning slow, that fire being fed more and more wood…sizzling and warm. Her head was spinning from the heat…couldn’t she have one slice of that achaar? With rice, cooled moong dal and one chilli…Who would notice? That one Prasad from the saint who just passed away…it would be salvation to penanced pilgrims! Just one slice…

“No woman must taste it, their frailty does not permit it! No, such a prize must be for the toiling and hardworking!”

Yes, yes, right! Toiling and hardworking! She had worked herself to exhaustion all these days, didn’t she? Her feet moved before her brain did, pulling her towards the kitchen – towards the beckon of light. There it was! Her dizzy eyes perceived the situation bleakly. There was Maya! In the slanting rays of sun, her white frock catching refractions in cotton lints, her complexion aglow…pulling the jar closer, closer…golden ambrosia, food for angels like her…of course, her mother deserved a taste too…So close, so close!

The jar crashed on the floor with a resounding boom. The syrup splotched the walls, sopping Maya in its twinkles, while most of it rained on the floor like a godly flood carrying strips of mango. “Menoka, what was that noise?”

Menoka stood stunned. 

“Menoka?”

Her trembling eyes withheld Maya. 

Maya, who preened in the cool sugary bath. Maya, who cupped her hands to catch the glinting gravy. Maya, who lifted her little arms like a kitten and licked, licked, licked. Tidying her furs, eyes closed and purring. Mouth ringed golden. In the last rays of the sun, the little ball of bliss awoke; an invitation to the communion.

“Menoka! Do you hear me?”

She had to act fast. 

Menoka fell down on her knees and bent. Her nose sniffed the fluid, before her tongue started lapping it up like milk. She gnawed on the tangy layers, slurped the spicy juice and gulped down the achaar. Chin dripping, forehead smeared, hair catching drops of perspiration and the potion. It was a revelation, a primal soothe. A recognition. Lyres ringing and flutes singing. It was honey on tongue and smoke on nose. A clammy hand closing her eyes to a restful nap. It was everything. There they were, mother and daughter, a cat and her kitten, participating in a holy prayer. Locking eyes, they grinned. A victorious swim in a sunset pool.

Footsteps hurried behind them. “Menoka, what is wrong with-“ 

Dashu entered the kitchen and stopped. The puzzled men who had followed gaped behind him.

Menoka and Maya bristled, hissing at him, guarding their prey from other hunters. 

The heat steamed.

By Avipsha Kar