As a child, I was endlessly puzzled by one thing: why did my mother never make pickles?
Every summer, jars of aam, nimbu and kathal achaar would appear in our home, and every summer I would ask the same question. Her answer never changed - "because your naani makes the best ones."
My naani's summers revolved around pickles. The arrival of raw mangoes signalled the beginning of a season-long ritual. There was the Punjabi-style aam ka achaar slick with mustard oil, heeng waala aam ka achaar, kacche aam ki chutney, and the meetha aam ka achaar that disappeared quickest. The garden became a workshop of sorts, lined with glass jars basking in the fierce summer sun
As a child, I was interested in the taste, but as an adult, I find myself fascinated by everything that surrounds it—the patience, the labour, the stories and the people. Achaar, I have realised, is rarely just about preservation and is more about memory.
For generations of Indian women, pickle-making has been more than a seasonal kitchen activity. It has been a way of marking time, nurturing community and expressing creativity. Every household seems to have its own closely guarded recipe, altered ever so slightly by the hands that inherit it.
Historically, the act of pickle-making has also created spaces of economic independence and empowerment for women. Long before artisanal foods became fashionable, women across India were building livelihoods through culinary knowledge inherited across generations.
One remarkable example is Nari Shakti Kendra in Ghaziabad. Founded in 1964 by Pushpawati Khaitan, the organisation was established to create livelihood opportunities for local women through traditional food products, including pickles and spice blends. More than six decades later, under the leadership of Jaya Bajaj, that legacy continues, proving that recipes passed from one generation to the next can become powerful instruments of self-reliance.
A similar story unfolds through the work of Sunili Bhatia of Gurgaon. What began as a personal passion evolved into Saatvika, a homegrown venture dedicated to preserving traditional recipes. Among her offerings are pickles that rarely find their way into commercial markets, surviving instead through family kitchens and oral traditions. Perhaps that is what makes achaar so enduring.
It is never the centrepiece of the meal. It sits unassumingly alongside dal, roti and sabzi, performing its role without fanfare, and yet it often carries the deepest stories. Behind every jar lies a network of relationships, regional identities, seasonal rhythms and inherited knowledge.
I think of my naani whenever summer arrives and the first raw mangoes begin appearing in the markets. The sight instantly transports me back to the garden lined with glass jars, afternoons scented with mustard oil, and hands busy preparing something that would outlast the season itself. I used to think pickles preserved fruit but now I think they preserve ways of life.