There are so many precious memories that form part of our childhood. Memories of familiar sights, sounds, smells, people. They travel with us for life, and many a times, something happens in the present that brings a long-forgotten memory to the fore. Sometimes, the feeling of recalling something you didn’t even know existed in your memory can literally take your breath away. At other times, it can make you giggle or burst into tears instantly.

And then there are those that make your mouth water. Memories of pickle-making do that to me.

Every single time I visit the supermarket and see the pickle aisle, or see raw mangoes beckoning in the vegetable section, I’m reminded of the lengths that my Amma went to – all to ensure a whole year’s supply of pickle for the family.

There was no question of buying readymade pickles from a store. It was simply unheard of. I remember how Amma would make the family’s favourite – Aavakkaai Ooruga. We would both be driven in our sturdy Ambassador car by our driver, all the way to Matunga from Andheri. My Amma would then pick the most firm and fresh Rajapuri mangoes, that giant variety of mangoes that a child of nine or ten would find difficult to hold with even two hands. Once she had picked out a few dozen worth, the mango seller would take us to another man who sat with the centuries-old Aruvamanai, his weapon of choice to tackle the task of chopping the mountain of mangoes.

With the razor-sharp Aruvamanai and decades of experience, the mango cutter would demolish the mountain in no time, each piece of mango cubed to just over an inch. For the Aavakkaai pickle, Amma would insist the mango be cut along with the seed. As the pickle softened in the spices, the hard husk that surrounded the seed would help to ensure the mango pieces didn’t just disintegrate and dissolve in their own juices. More would follow to reinforce the firmness of the mango, to achieve that perfect point in the pickling stage between a hard piece of raw mango and a totally mushy over-pickled piece. Amma’s Aavakkaai would be so perfect that when you took it from the pickle jar, it would still hold its shape. But apply the slightest pressure with your fingers, and it would simply give and turn into this velvet mush, to mix easily with curd and rice, or anything you could think of eating it with.

After the mango cutting marathon, we would proceed to the spice store opposite the wholesale vegetable market. Amma would buy copious quantities of spices. All in the precise proportions needed to achieve that perfect flavour that form the basis of a pickle.

Back home, armed with bags brimming with cut mangoes, Amma would organise buckets of clean water (after cleaning the buckets themselves to near-sterile levels). Huge quantities of turmeric and salt went into the water and the mangoes followed. As the mangoes absorbed the salt-turmeric water, they became a treat by themselves. I have lost count of the number of times my fingers were slapped away as I reached into that magical bucket which transformed that raw piece of mango into a delicacy. It is as they say – forbidden fruit is often the tastiest. And the more zealously Amma guarded those buckets, the more eager I became to get my hands on the prize!

If the juicy, soaked mangoes had me plotting, the sundried ones had me downright scheming. For the next step in getting to the perfect Aavakkaai was to sun-dry the mangoes. Old bedsheets stored for just this occasion would come out of storage and be secured with stones on the terrace of our building. Amma would then drain the mangoes out of the turmeric brine solution and dry them on the bedsheets. Another bedsheet would go on top, again secured with stones, to safeguard the drying mangoes from birds.

I cannot begin to describe the taste of those sundried briny mangoes. While the juicy mangoes of the previous stage were mouth-wateringly fresh and luscious, the sun-dried stage added something to them and the taste simply transformed into something stronger, something full-bodied. It was like the sun kissed each piece of mango and left a taste of itself behind.

Once the mangoes were dried, a spice mix was prepared with everything we picked out at the store – split mustard seeds, mustard powder, chilli powder, fenugreek powder, salt and a whole lot of gingelly oil was added. A huge Bharani of porcelain, a relic of the British era (if you turned them over, you would clearly see “Made in London” marked at the bottom of these jars) was cleaned thoroughly, sun-dried to ensure it was completely dry of even the last possible drop of water, and only then the mangoes mixed in spices would make their way in, along with the oil. A clean piece of cloth was then used to tie up the Bharani and not one person dared go anywhere near it for a good couple of months.

The pinnacle of this entire process would be the day of the unveiling. Another much smaller glass or porcelain jar would be cleaned, dried and made ready to be the “retail” store for the pickle. A clean dry spoon would be used to carefully take out the ready pickle from the huge Bharani. The Aavakkaai would finally be declared ready for consumption.

It’s been decades since Amma last made Aavakkaai. With Parkinson’s playing on her memories, I didn’t expect her to remember the recipe either. A few years ago, at my insistence, my sister asked Amma how to make Aavakkaai. And the recipe tumbled out from the recesses of her memory, as if she had made it just yesterday.

And I felt like a ten-year old once again, holding my Amma’s hand while she stood in that bustling market, her eagle eyes missing nothing, where the journey of the Aavakkaai of my childhood began.