For children: How a jar of pickles can bring a family – even a neighbourhood – closer together

I woke up with Bebe’s words echoing in my mind: “The greatest treasures aren’t bought – they’re made, shared, and felt.”

The scent of spices, the warmth of the sun – they had all felt so real. But it was just a dream… wasn’t it?

I sat up, hugging my blanket, a small smile tugging at my lips as I thought of Bebe. It was suddenly easy to understand why Mumma called her the best.

I rushed to the kitchen where Mumma was sipping her morning chai, scrolling through her phone. I wanted to tell her everything, but... maybe not yet. I wanted to make this special for her too. I had a plan.

“Mumma,” I began casually, “can we make achaar?”

She raised an eyebrow and set her mug down. “Achaar?”

“I just … want to try it,” I said with a shrug.

She studied me curiously. “You didn’t even know achaar could be made at home until yesterday.”

I fidgeted. “I just think it would be fun. Like you said.”

She narrowed her eyes suspiciously, but didn’t press further. “Alright,” she said at last. “Let’s do it. But you’re going to help with everything.”

“Deal!” I grinned.

Later that afternoon, we visited the local bazaar. In those narrow, colourful lanes, bright green mangoes were piled high and the aroma of spices swirled in the air. The vendors were busy calling out their wares. It was all so familiar, just like in my dream.

Mumma stopped at a mango vendor. “These look fine.”

“Not this one,” I blurted out before I could stop myself.

She turned to me, surprised.

“Uh … it’s too soft. The best ones are firm and smell tangy,” I said quickly.

Her eyebrows knit together. “How do you know that?”

“I just do,” I replied, pressing my lips together. This wasn’t just my secret; it was Bebe’s pickling wisdom.

Mumma didn’t look convinced but nodded. “Alright, little expert. You choose.”

I carefully picked out the mangoes, feeling a small swell of pride when Mumma approved my selection.

At the spice stall, she reached for a packet of fennel seeds.

“No, Mumma. Smell them first, to check if they’re fresh.”

Mumma’s jaw dropped. “Amani, have you secretly become an achaar expert? Your skills are getting spooky.”

I laughed nervously. “I just … watched a video.”

She shook her head, amused. “Hmm, alright then, chef. I think we’re done.”

I rummaged through the bags. “Wait! We forgot the red chillies!”

Mumma turned to me, surprised. “I was just about to say that. You’re not hiding something from me, are you?”

“Of course not!” I chuckled. “I’m just paying attention.”

At the earthenware stall, Mumma picked up a shiny ceramic jar – just like the ones in my dream. As she ran her fingers over its smooth surface, she asked, “Do you know why we use these?”

I grinned knowingly. “Yes! This is where the magic happens.”

Mumma stopped and stared at me.

“What?” I cleared my throat, trying to stay calm. “You said that earlier, didn’t you?”

She squinted and replied, “I didn’t.”

Oops. My mind raced for a quick save. “Uh … maybe I saw it in the video I watched.”

Mumma didn’t look convinced. “Right,” she said slowly, placing the jars in a bag.

“We’re making mango pickle, but why is something smelling fishy?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Mumma!” I burst out laughing. “You’re overthinking. And honestly, you need to work on your jokes!”

She laughed too, handing me a bag.

I grabbed it, relieved that the secret was still safe.

Excerpted with permission from Shanti and Amani: Secret of the Pickled Dream, Yesha Gambhir Mirza, illustrated by Priyanka Pachpande, Simon and Schuster India.