Freshly picked mangoes,

Rolled into heaps,

Washed and dried,

Carefully checked for firmness

By the hands of experts,

They would be chopped into chunks

Brined and spiced

To make the renowned mango pickle…

 

Oh! How we would plead,

For a piece or two while they were cut;

Our teeth yearned

For the funky aftertaste;

Sweet and sour, 

Titillating our taste buds,

We would try to gobble a few,

Before they fell into 

an oil bath of marinated spices.

 

They lay in huge jars

For several days,

Quietly, unassumingly,

Before they were ready,

With all infused flavours,

(The secret ingredient being

our grandma’s love). 

 

And finally when the wait was over

They made their appearance…

With mouthfuls of curd rice,

We savoured the pickled queens,

Smacking our lips,

As we listened 

To all the woven tall tales

That our grandma had to tell…

 

Those are the  wonderful memories

Of Indian summers,

When our childhood 

Was filled with pickled pleasures

And moments that were treasured…

********
This poem was written for NaPoWriMo21 challenge conducted by ArtoonsInn in the month of April. ( Day 19)

Picture Credit : Pixabay