Metro Plus
Bangalore
Chennai
Coimbatore
Delhi
Hyderabad
Kochi
Madurai
Thiruvananthapuram
Visakhapatnam
Avakkai pickles with Abdul
|
Making pickles does not just entail mangoes and masala.
|
ABDUL AZIZ called me again last week. This is an annual ritual. "Assalamu alaikum," he said. "Walaikumussalam. Khairiyat?" I asked, in my Shivajinagar Urdu that sounds like Malayalam. And we both laughed. It usually tickles him when I poke fun at his patois. We then made polite enquiries of each other's families.
Every year he calls up to say that the mangoes have arrived and that my mother and I should turn up to buy our usual humungous quota of the raw fruit from him. My mother's annual visit coincides with our herculean task of pickle making. No, we're not in business, but we have a long list of friends and relatives who book their share well in advance in return for a large amount of goodwill. The pickle in question is avakkai and it involves Abdul's astute business sense and co-operation.
My mother and I discovered Abdul quite by chance. We had done the rounds of all the major markets in the City and tried out a dozen mango sellers over a like number of years before settling for Abdul. He completely understood our requirements and extracted his price for the privilege.
For the uninitiated, avakkai pickles require raw, fully mature, very sour and fibrous mangoes that have to be hewn into eight or 10 pieces with the centre bit intact. It is not easy when the numbers involved are between 150 and 200. It is labour intensive. Unless one is a habitual rioter or a serial killer, one does not have the wherewithal to do it at home. This is where Abdul comes in. He gets the mangoes and expertly cuts them for us. Time is an important factor and the mango pieces have to be transported, washed, picked, completely dried (in shade, under the fan), mixed with salt, oil, and masala, and packed in their jadis before sundown. It is backbreaking labour and a very tense process, because both the BWSSB and KPTC have to keep up their end. By the end of the day, both my mother and I are consumed by a burning (thanks to the fiery chilli and mustard powders) desire for an oil bath.
All this torture might horrify you. But I am told the pickles are worth it. The recipe is a secret, of course. My spouse urges me to take the PM into confidence and prevail upon him to send a jadi to Gen. Musharraf to improve bilateral relations. They are bound to work better than Alphonso mangoes, he says.
Initially, our relationship with Abdul was that of any buyer and seller, full of suspicion and one-upmanship. As we became regulars, we got to know about each other's families. Two days prior to D-Day, I go to Abdul and tell him our requirements. On the appointed day, we turn up at his shop, located in a smelly corner of the market, where he ceremoniously organises our seating arrangements. The pride of place is for my mother. He has a lot of respect for mothers. As he invariably reminds me: "One can always get another wife, but one can have only one mother." I, being the lackey, usually get to sit on an upturned crate.
Sane people don't take home two sacks of cut mangoes. The average shopper settles for 20 mangoes at the most. As Abdul cuts the mangoes with his big meat cleaver, people, as is their wont, usually stop by and ask about the huge and growing heap. "It is for the Army canteen," is Abdul's brusque reply, before waving them away and muttering under his breath, "Nazar lagega."
I reckon the last barrier of reserve was broken the summer after the destruction of the Babri Masjid and the Bombay blasts. The riots that ensued were still on my mind when my mother and I turned up the following month at Abdul's shop. The holocaust lay heavy in the air. Finally, Abdul mentioned it, and we talked and talked at talked, each anxious to put the other at ease.
Today, our relationship is such that I drop off a bottle of pickles with him in September, when they're ready. He occasionally gives me surma from Saudi. Out of curiosity, I had once asked him about surma that lines his grey-green eyes. He must have assumed it was a hint to get me a phial. My mother and I don't have to wait for the mangoes to be cut. They are cut and ready by the time we turn up. We no longer bargain and hand over whatever Abdul asks for.
On our D-Day last year, the entire area was cordoned off, making the market inaccessible. Three men had been stabbed the night before in front of the market in the middle of a festival, with fatal consequences.
This time, I forced my reluctant spouse to accompany me. We had to walk for over a kilometre and were figuring out the scary prospect of transporting the mangoes. No problem, as it turned out. Abdul called one of his sundry brothers, got him to load one of the sacks on a rickety scooter. The brother tore through bylanes hitherto unknown to me, speeding over little gutters and mud heaps. I, somewhat resembling a sack of cut mangoes myself, hung on for dear life till we reached our car. Another trip to ferry an equally terrified spouse, and we were done.
I suppose if I go to another mango seller, I could get the fruit for half the sum I shell out. But I know I never will. By the way, Abdul Aziz is not his real name. It is much more poetic. But, if I say it, nazar lagega.
SUGANDHI RAVINDRANATHAN
Printer friendly
page
Send this article to Friends by
E-Mail
Metro Plus
Bangalore
Chennai
Coimbatore
Delhi
Hyderabad
Kochi
Madurai
Thiruvananthapuram
Visakhapatnam
|
