In summer’s golden, blazing pride,
When mango trees grow far and wide,
Aroma swirls through village air,
Of pickle jars with love and care.
Green raw mangoes, sliced just right,
Bathed in sun, both day and night,
Turmeric dreams and chili red,
Danced on them like spice had wed.
Mustard seeds in tempered glee,
With fenugreek and ajwain spree,
Oil glistens in the morning sun,
As Grandma’s magic has begun.
The mortar sings a grinding tune,
While clay pots bake beneath the moon,
Hands smear spice with joyful grace,
Preserving time in every place.
Salted tales from days gone by,
In every tangy bite, they lie—
Of monsoon rains and childhood days,
When mango pickle ruled our ways.
A whiff, a taste, and we return,
To lunch beneath a neem tree’s fern,
With khichdi warm or curd rice mild,
Pickle danced and made us wild!
It’s not just food—it’s culture kept,
In oil and spice where memories slept,
In every jar, a mother’s song,
Of flavors bold, of roots so strong.
So here’s to pickle, bright and bold,
In glass and sun, its tales unfold,
A mango’s journey, fierce and free,
From orchard limb to destiny.