THIS IS GASTROMANCY

Gastromancy June Challenge Taste Flavour

Jackfruit tree, perhaps from my hometown?

So, taking on the challenge! Thanks to Ken Miura and Krspeace

GASTRONOMANCY June 1st Week Taste/Flavour

The Taste That Time Cannot Touch

I do not remember the first time I tasted my mother’s jackfruit pickle. Like many things she did, it was a part of the world, like the sun rising or the scent of her sari after a long day. It sat on our kitchen shelf in a glass jar, stained amber with oil and spice, its lid forever sticky no matter how many times she wiped it clean. It was more than a condiment. It was a presence.

Even now, years later, the memory of that taste is vivid. The first bite always startled me—the tang of mustard seeds, the sudden heat of chili, the crunch of jackfruit that had surrendered just enough to the homemade sirka (processed from either grapes or sugarcane), not synthetic vinegar, and the fume of fresh mustard oil that vaped the senses.

It was a riot in the mouth, the kind that made you close your eyes for a second to process what had just happened. The sweetness of jaggery came last, soft and slow, as if to console the fire that came before.

We lived in an old palatial colonial bungalow sprawled across two acres of wild, abundant land in a small, sleepy one-horse town called Allahabad.

Allahabad has a majestic fort built by Emperor Akbar on the banks of the holy Sangam, the meeting point of the three rivers, Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati.

Allahabad has been the seat of the Freedom Struggle and has Anand Bhawan, the home of Jawaharlal Nehru, where Indira Gandhi was born. Main stalwarts of the freedom struggle, including Mahatma Gandhi, stayed there whilst conducting important meetings.

The kind of place that breathes with history, where every corner holds a story and every tree a secret. Every gumti has a story to tell.

“Mudiyan ki dukaan, who sold cigarettes, paan, and zarda! Soft on ganja!”

In our house, there was a sort of grand ballroom that opened into a veranda, then steps leading down to a cemented bandstand, guarded by two mammoth sugar palm trees (from which you get toddy), surrounded by a hedge of mehndi (henna)

Our garden wasn’t just a garden; it was a world. Mangoes, guavas, litchis, sharifa (custard apple), karaunda (of the green and pink variety), grapes, figs, and ber—each tree was a season, a mood, a temptation.

We were tree climbers by instinct. My siblings and I would swing from branch to branch, plucking whatever was ripe, or almost ripe, and devour it then and there. Dusty fingers, stained lips, and zero regard for washing. The garden was our kitchen, and sunlight was seasoning enough.

And then, there was the jackfruit tree. Towering, stubborn, with a hide like that of an elephant! It didn’t give in easily, not like the soft litchis or playful karaunda, mangoes, or berries. It stood like a guardian, its fruit hidden under a thick, prickly shell, as if taste had to be earned. The tender, unripe jackfruit, the kind used for pickles, was my mother’s domain.

She made it once a year, when the koel (cuckoo) began its song, each summer when the jackfruit was young and green, before it ripened into the sticky sweetness of monsoon. I would watch her, knife in hand, greased palms so that the milk of jackfruit would not stick, elbow-deep in turmeric and sunlight, humming something in Sanskrit.

She’d slice the stubborn fruit open. Steam would rise, sticky and pungent, as she separated flesh from fiber with practiced grace.

There was reverence in the way she worked—washing the pieces in saltwater, drying them on a white cloth, and waiting for just the right moment to mix them with roasted fenugreek and asafoetida.

She never worked from a recipe. The measurements lived in her fingers, the exact roast of mustard seeds, the sizzle of oil when asafoetida touched it, and the precise bitterness of fenugreek before it turned fragrant. She laid the jackfruit pieces on a white cloth in the veranda, under the slow-turning ceiling fan, letting them breathe and dry. And somewhere between her hands and the sun, the pickle began to take shape.

The final product went into a large glass jar, fresh mustard oil glistening gold around the pieces. It would sit on a high shelf in the kitchen to greet the sun god, like a quiet promise. And when it was finally time, usually with a bowl of rice and chapati, she would open that jar. The aroma was unmistakable. Sharp. Fiery. Alive.

That first bite was never just food. It was the sound of dry leaves underfoot, the rough bark of trees against our shins, and the laughter of cousins hiding behind grapevines. It was her bangles clinking against a steel bowl, her voice calling us in from play.

I never wrote the recipe down. I thought I didn’t need to.

Now, I find myself chasing that flavor across jars and kitchens, reading labels that promise "traditional" and "authentic," but they all fall short. None of them carry her touch—the way she adjusted spice by instinct: yellow mustard seeds, haldi, dhania, zeera, chilli, jaggery, garam masala, ginger-garlic-onion paste, and salt; vinegar and oil came in last.

She would whisper a blessing under her breath before sealing the jar. "Pickle has a rhythm," she used to say. "You have to learn to taste with your hands, not just your tongue."

It’s only now that I realize she wasn’t just preserving jackfruit pickle. She was preserving time.

And in that taste, in that stubborn, unforgettable flavor that enthralls my memory, I find her.