If I ever needed to describe E-46 as a landmark, I would first of all probably mention the three eucalyptus trees that used to stand opposite our home. One straight, one slightly tilted and the last one supporting the weight of the one before it. Their intense fragrance was usually faded by the strong fumes emanating from the kitchens around them; middle-aged housewives working hard on perfecting their own version of Garam Masala, each one competing against the insecure wife next door. E-46 was the beginning of my life journey. It was my first home.

Our well-sized two-story house was where I spoke my first words, where I walked my first steps, where I was gifted a little baby brother- and where I discovered my revelational love for food. Initially, it was all about the one-toned comfort foods- Steamed rice and lentils served with yoghurt, strawberry jelly, and warm custard (something my mother used to prepare only on special days) and bread slightly burnt on the stove, loaded with Butter (or what I call, Mom’s toast). However, a few years down the line, I started discovering other mind-boggling tastes that could spark mini fireworks in my mouth- spiced foods, sour foods, and most excitingly- really pungent food. Perhaps the greatest wingman that led to my intense relationship with pungency began with my encounter with Pickle. And by pickle, I mean ALL sorts of Pickle. Whether it was made of the meat of mangoes, stalks of carrots, joints of turnips, lemon wedges, ginger shreds or plain old garlic- if there was ever any form of pickle on the side of a dish, I knew I was going to have a hearty and satiated meal.

The best part about pickle is that it never goes out of season- always keeping me entertained with its change in composition. In the summer months, it is usually made by my grandmother: sour mangoes loathed with (forgive me) pungent mustard oil, and in the winter, I prefer my best friend’s grandmother’s pickle- a sweet amalgamation of carrots, turnips and cauliflower drenched in sesame oil. My obsession might seem obscure to you, but I personally consider myself a pickle connoisseur, always a lick away from deciding the fate of a baby carrot or unripe young mango. One of my earliest encounters with a truly good pickle, of course, took place at E-46 too.

Close by my humble abode, existed a family store called ‘Monga Sweets’ that specialised in providing steaming hot, Northern Indian breakfast items to early birds of the day. Monga catered to all my special cravings — ranging from decadently loaded steamy samosas to indulgent milky mithai to injuriously spicy chaat. However, the one particular item I always looked forward to and enjoyed the most was called Chole Bhature- namely, ‘chole’ , being chickpeas immersed in a thick brown gravy- pungently spice with cumin and ginger and ‘bhature’, being the puffy bread served on the side, which was deep fried in large steel containers. But none of these components were my favourite part of the breakfast.

Indeed, it was the pickle. The pickle they served alongside the dish, the additional component that I always used to ask for extra portions of. Just catching a glimpse of the pickle made my heart beat faster, flushed my cheeks and made me cringe for that much-anticipated lick. Any ordinary pickle could not cause this kind of excitement. These were thinly sliced mangoes that were marinated in a unique way that gave them the perfect amount of zest to counterbalance the heaviness of the ‘Chole’ and ‘Bhature’. Lightly coated with red chilly, I remember the pickle to always be of a bright vibrant yellow hue. And somehow, Monga never disappointed us with their consistency.

But a few years down the line, more specifically speaking, when I turned 12, all the consistency from my life suddenly vanished. In my earlier life, I was used to my long walks from the bus stop to home, being guided by the enticing fumes I mentioned before. I was used to having my brother as the only companion to all the games I ever played- Spy Kids, Dr. Who, Office-Office, you name it. I was used to my grandparents and my parents co-existing in the same daily routine, each one sharing insightful stories of their day during dinner. I was used to all of us sitting on the floor for every meal, opposite the massive ‘Sony’ television, watching the daily soap opera that used to make my head cringe with all the dramatic sound effects. But this was all part of the life I knew for nearly 12 years, and I loved every second of it. I felt secure, loved, and extremely attached to each member of my family, ranging from my grandfather to my little baby brother.

Now, the Eucalyptus trees have been replaced by beige high-rise buildings, the masala fumes by aromatic lemongrass diffusers, and absolute simplicity to tons of complication. In the transition of my permanent address from E-46 to GP-2, I feel like I have changed as well as a person. I will not deny that the change has made me the person I am today: confident, inspired, and well-rounded, but to this date, sometimes I wake up in my own personal room and feel like I’m not home. I ache for the room where I used to sleep with my brother, I hear footsteps of myself running around the long corridors, and I feel the urge to go see my old house just once more, even if it’s just from the outside.

One of the biggest regrets I have, besides leaving my real home? I haven’t been to Monga, nor have I tried their exquisite pickle in over 11 years.

Monga Waala Pickle

Even though I haven’t been to Monga in more than a decade, the sheer happiness it brought me, forced me to recreate a version of the pickle by myself. Even without the Chole and Bhature, if you make a batch of it- you should get the hint of the freshness it hit me with, every single time.

Ingredients

1 full Raw Mango, Thinly diced sideways*

2 teaspoons Red Chilli Powder

3 Tablespoons Fresh Lemon Juice

*: Try to buy the raw mangoes in season. There is a difference if they are plucked in the summer or winter. Believe me, I’ve been there, done that.

Preparation

Finely dice the Mangoes as mentioned. Add the red chili powder and lemon juice. Mix well. **

**: Sadly, I cannot assure you the vibrant yellow color of the mangoes. That’s a particular form of magic that possibly only Monga can recreate.

In my 27 years of existence, I have gone through some incredible highs and some dark lows, but every time I have been able to process the events and made sense of them in my head and heart. Historically, this has allowed me to move past them and trudge on with life. Except, for what happened last September.

Born and brought up in an incredibly tight-knit family, I was always surrounded by love, laughter, and pulling each other’s leg. My family has always been my rock, and our guiding leaders were both my grandparents. My grandfather built a reputable business centered around making roads safer for India’s citizens by manufacturing road-safety signages. My grandmother, on the other hand, supported him in every endeavour. Whether that included assembling the reflective stickers, preparing wholesome meals at home, or keeping her three children in check so that they can perform their best at school and later on, in life.

I always marveled at their resolute bond and knew it was their relationship that formed the bedrock of all future unions in my family. One day, I prayed that I would come across a man that could stand as strong and tall as my Papa, committed to always doing the right thing, enjoying the good things in life, and making time for family — come what may. I think I have.

I had big dreams as a teenager: I wanted to represent India on a global stage by forming strong policies that could elevate our domestic and international standing. These aspirations were moulded by my time in school, with our motto ‘Vasudhaiv Kutambakam’, literally meaning, ‘The world is a family’. I headed out to the US when I was 18 to get started on my life’s mission, by pursuing a degree in International Relations, from one of the top schools based in Washington D.C.

Given how attached I was to my family, it was hard saying goodbye to my two grandparents, knowing deep inside that they were getting old and I might not have too much time left with them. I always boarded my flight, with a tight knot in my chest, but prayed for the best and knew deep in my heart, that by working hard, I will make them proud.

And then, the inevitable happened. Life took its course. In the summer of my Sophomore year, I woke up one morning to a call from my older Bua informing me that my Papa passed away. It was the first time someone so close to my heart had left us and I simply didn’t know what to do with the pain. Not just mine, but the pain I felt for my entire family (both close and distant) because Papa was one in a million. Incredibly kind, hard-working, and altruistic. It hit me like a ferocious cold wave, slapping me down to the ground, without anyone around to comfort me while I tried to brave the tsunami.

My parents booked me on the next flight home, but I only witnessed the final rites by the time I got back. Luckily, I had my family around me to hold me tight and ensure me that he was in a better place as he was no longer in pain. I was grateful to god as he had put an end to the suffering of my dear Papa and with that conviction, I quickly let the pain go.

Three years later, work led me back to India, and I was ecstatic to return back to my home base. I felt like I had missed out on some big life events and crucial bonding time with my parents and grandmother. Unlike most international students who come back home with a dreary attitude, I was overjoyed to be living under the same roof again with my favourite people in the world, devouring home-cooked meals, and taking in the small gestures of love every day.

Undeniably, one of the highlights was being close to Mom again. We had our own funny little rituals: sharing the paper together every morning. We tried to figure out a system wherein the first reader in the house would be my father (around 6:30 AM with his elaichi tea in hand), Mom next (she would speed through the paper as she knew I would be knocking by her door soon) and lastly, me — reading just the top headlines before I made my way into work. Another ritual was ordering her bi-monthly beauty essentials — she was fascinated by the convenience of online shopping and always used to circle out deals to experiment with the latest moisturizer in the paper. I would be excited to secure the best offer online, and then danced my way into her room to show her the goodies. She would relent on paying for the creams and shampoos, and I just used to shrug it away. “No Mom, you already do too much.” Some times I would win the battle, but most times, Mom being Mom, paid for her own skincare. She was resolute about maintaining ‘Hisaab’ in life. Another beautiful exchange was how she used to pull out old pictures, showcasing her worldly travels with Papa by her side, or baby pictures of her three children. How her eyes glowed as she narrated the stories… but in the back of my mind, I selfishly wondered how much longer to the conclusion of the story as I had to race back to my room for my next meeting. What a shame! I think back now.

Mom was the living embodiment of a perfectionist. Whether it was the way she styled her hair and makeup. The unique yet perfectly balanced colour combinations of her suits. The mix of masalas in her Kofta curry. Her pristine articulation. Her commitment to Paath. She was a role model for me. But the biggest reason I adored her was her selfless love. How she gave away her precious jewels to ensure that her sisters-in-law could be wedded off in good and stable families. How she would check in on each one of us at home to ensure we got to our destination safely, ate food on time, and were pain-free from our sickness or injury. She truly embodied and showcased infinite love to each one of us at home — from the house help to our little dog, Minty, and I so loved her back for that.

And then, life took its course again. She had a daily habit of bowing down to the Gurudwara that was in eye range from our house. While she could easily spot it from her room, peculiarly enough, she started walking to the drawing room, to see it from the larger balcony. We didn’t make anything of it and were glad that she had started going to the other room, as it was a short exercise for her. One such night, as she made her way to seek blessings from the Gurudwara, she accidentally slipped on a small toy that belonged to Minty. She fell down and cried in pain but powered through the night in her bed. I frantically ran up to the house (I was just one floor below, with my two best friends, when I heard the news). But seeing her in her bed, I was relieved that there were no physical signs of injury. I knew she’d be back to speed in no time. Boy was I wrong.

My father and I took a call the next day to take her to the hospital for a quick check-up — to ensure she didn’t have any fractures or internal injuries. We were confident that we’d return back home by lunchtime and had requested for lunch to be ready. Little did we know that the fall was the start of a three week posting in the hospital. Beginning with the discovery of five fractures trailing from her hip all the way up to her neck, a demonic catheter that led to the spread of rife infection throughout her body, and finally the utter dismantling of her kidneys. Family members from India and around the world started descending upon our house, all worried about the developments and praying relentlessly for a miracle to occur. I was utterly in shock for most of it and outright dejected at the thought of my beautiful Mom to be surviving under the bloody brace of a Bipap.

The emotions I felt during those three weeks were so horrifically confusing and morbid. Concern, worry, anxiety, depression, hope, gratitude, irritation, selfishness, numbness, and finally ultimate surrendering. When we first found out about the spread of the infection in her body, the doctor told us that we should say our last words to her. This literally happened in the span of one week of her resting at home after she was released from the hospital, post the fractures. And I hate myself every single day for not taking the situation seriously enough. In every atom of my body, I believed that she will be alright. I skirted away turns to sit beside her, I continued to make plans with friends, I continued to look for jobs. In retrospect, I hate myself for my ignorance. The guilt I carry for my sheer neglect during that time is a heavy rock I have to live with every day.

And finally, the tale of life unfolded again in front of our eyes. On the 25th of September, around 6 AM in the morning, my brother and I were called on by my younger Bua to rush to Mom’s room as she was likely taking her last breaths. My mother (god bless her soul for everything she did for Mom, particularly in those three weeks) hurriedly started chanting the Ardas as the six of us surrounded my precious Mom, looking on as she completed the last five minutes of her existence before her heart rate flattened out completely. There she was, our biggest champion, the queen of our hearts, going away in front of our eyes. And we could do NOTHING. We tried everything. We went back and forth on her medications at least five times. We prayed the hardest we ever have. We cried and wailed for her to get better. And it all amounted to the inevitable. Mom was bound to reunite with my Papa, and just like that, graceful as ever, she waited for the last syllables of the prayer to be completed before she ascended to heaven.

It’s been nearly six months since she left us, but her departure is something I have still not come to terms with. I still feel like she is around us, guiding us, the sweet perfume of her room still fills the halls of our house during special occasions. But the reality is, she’s not here anymore. And I just can’t accept it. This is the truth about grief: you may forget about it momentarily, but when someone this great leaves the world, their absence will always be felt in your heart.