They sit quietly in the corner of the plate—sometimes on a banana leaf, sometimes in a tiny steel katori, sometimes just nestled between rice and sabzi like a secret. They’re not the main dish. They don’t get a ladle. But ask anyone who’s grown up eating Indian food, and they’ll tell you: a meal without achaar feels… incomplete. Unanchored. Like something vital is missing. Because pickles aren’t sidekicks. They’re punctuation. Personality. And yes, they deserve their own spot—every single time.
In our house, the pickle was never just added. It was introduced. My grandmother would open the jar with the kind of care usually reserved for old books or fragile memories. She’d scoop out just enough—never too much, never greedy—and place it gently on the plate. “Yeh aam wala hai,” she’d say. Mango, spicy and sun-cooked. Or “Try this garlic one—it’s strong.” And it always was. Strong, assertive, unapologetic. Like the women who made it.
Not a Condiment, a Character
Achaar isn’t ketchup. It’s not a smear or a drizzle. It’s a personality in paste form. It doesn’t blend in—it announces itself. You don’t drown food in it. You chase it with a bit of rice, a bite of curd, a crumb of roti. It teases your tongue, wakes up sleepy lentils, and gives plain khichdi the confidence to feel like a feast.
It doesn’t ask for attention, but when it’s good, it steals the show. A spoonful of lemon pickle with curd rice? Magic. Chilli pickle with paratha? Fire and affection. Gongura, garlic, sweet mango, green tomato, bitter turmeric—each one has a mood, a season, a story.
The Spot on the Plate
And yes, it gets its own spot. Not just because of oil or spice or mess—but out of respect. You can’t mix it in with the sabzi. You can’t let it touch the sweets. It sits apart, like an elder at the table—slightly aloof, deeply respected. Even on a banana leaf, there’s a designated corner. Top left. Between the salt and the chutney. Just a thumb-sized dollop—but everyone knows not to skip it.
When we were kids, we used to sneak extra from the jar and get caught. “Achaar is not a snack,” my mother would say. And yet, she herself would eat paratha with just pickle and dahi and call it dinner. That contradiction is the whole point. It’s small but mighty. You don’t need a bowlful—just a smear is enough to turn lunch into something you remember.
The Labor of Love Behind It
Making pickle was a summer event. A production. The mangoes had to be cut a certain way. The masala mixed without clumping. The jars cleaned and dried in the sun like relics. Then came the waiting. The watching. The “Don’t touch it yet!” warnings. And when it was finally ready, the first tasting was communal, reverent. You didn’t just taste it. You judged it. “Last year’s was spicier,” someone would always say. And that was fine. Pickle was allowed to have a personality. It was the one item on the shelf that refused to be neutral.
Pickles Abroad, Pickles at Home
When I moved abroad, I carried jars like they were passports. Tightly wrapped, double-lidded, and prayed over by aunties at customs. They made the rice taste like home. They made the kitchen feel like someone had stirred it with a steel spoon and a lot of love. I’d open the jar and suddenly, everything softened. Even the loneliness.
Now, I still give pickles their own spot. Even if the plate is a ceramic bowl and the rice is reheated. Even if the meal is rushed. The achaar goes last. Right before I sit down. Not stirred in. Not forgotten. Just placed—carefully, lovingly—in its own little corner. Because that spot? That’s where the meal finds its fire. Its funk. Its memory.
Pickles deserve their own spot—not because they’re extra, but because they remind us how small things, done with intensity and care, can hold up an entire meal. And sometimes, an entire day.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
Born in Mumbai, now stir-frying feelings in Texas. Writes about food, memory, and the messy magic in between — mostly to stay hungry, sometimes just to stay sane.
