In the middle of my Nani’s kitchen stood a mid-century-style display cabinet, its glass sliding doors indented with frosted grooves as handles. Most of her cabinets housed her Wedgwood figurines and hand-cut crystal glassware, but this one was stuffed with jars of achar (pickles) and ferments. My mother never much cared for pickles, finding them bothersome and pointless, so I hadn’t really tried them until we moved to Karachi, where Nani Mummy ate them with every meal. Mummy disliked the acidity and sharpness of the mustard oil used to preserve most of them, and she hated oily food, so unnecessary pickles laden with oil that seeped onto the plate was not her idea of embellishing a meal.
