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They stood like sentinels in a cage in the kitchen. Various sized bottles holding marriages of sweet, briny, smooth, nutty, fruity, garlic, vegetable, prawn and any other flavour imaginable. Tall and sleek, squat with a dimpled round surface, boxy but spacious, the jars in my granny’s larder. So many pickles in so many bottles holding so much love.

My grandmother was a Parsi. Parsis are the perfect mix of good humour, eccentric behaviour and delicious food culture. Their unique situation – ancestral roots in Iran with a strong influence of Gujarati gastronomy and language –makes Parsi food an interesting epicurean experience unlike any other type of Indian cuisine. Mostly unpronounceable dishes are cooked with intense yet surprising flavour combinations to produce the most unforgettable type of food. Each year of my youth I’d look forward to a Parsi wedding or confirmation ceremony in extended family or friends, since these produced food feasts unparalleled by other Indian events. Whether it was fresh pomfret slathered in tangy coriander chutney wrapped in a banana leaf (paathra ni macchi) or chunks of chicken dragged through eggy batter and deep fried (chicken farcha) or the delicate wobble of creamy caramel (lagan nu custard), Parsi food remains my favourite type of food.

But the shining stars of my grandmother’s kitchen were her pickles. I remember walking through the labyrinthine spreads of raw mangoes, limes and chillies, drying out in the baking April sun on her home’s large attached terrace, the soles of my feet blistering their protest, but my mouth watering its consent. I remember huge empty vats, their insides hollow, awaiting the arrival of the dry goods. The limes, lemons, mangoes, ginger, garlic, chillies, carrots, onions, capers and whatnot would be chopped, shredded, julienned, sliced (cut in a myriadways) and fistfuls made their way into those vats, where they were smothered in weird and wonderful spices, preserved with herbs bought fresh at the local market. Different combinations produced different flavours. Only she knew the ratio of the vegetables to the oil, the sugar to the cayenne pepper, the tamarind to the mustard seeds (popped in searing hot oil to release their pungency). Only she knew what temperature to preserve the lemon rind until it was ready to be squashed under the weight of a ton of jaggery. And only she knew each family member’s favourite type of pickle.

Mine was the murabba. The Parsi murabbais a tangy amalgam of thinly stripped raw mango marinated over many weeks then left to drown in jaggery syrup, cayenne pepper, salt, tamarind juice and some other secret stuff. The finished product was a firm yet fleshy pickle, best scooped into fresh, hot chappatis or slowly licked with one guilty index finger as it waited on a plate for the ubiquitous dal/chawal. Regular Parsi dal is usually cooked with lots of garlic and tempered with cumin. Other types of dals are the dhansak and the masala dal. The former is infamous (but has morbid origins as it was originally served at memorials), the latter is a thick, spicy version of the regular.

Murabba (gentrified from the Arabic Ǯmirabbaǯ– for jam) is an idea originating in the Caucasus (present day Armenia, Georgia and Azerbaijan). Merchants who travelled to India from these lands (once a large part of ancient Persia) adopted the local aam, or mango, into their murabba. The locals kind of liked the taste –hey, a major active ingredient is sugar! – and made it their own by hefting it with spice from chillies and sourness from lime juice. Gujaratis like their food balanced with its own share of sweetness and their pickling creations enjoy their fair share of sweetness, achieved by adding sugar in its various stages of processing – from nubby nutty jaggery to fine white powder. Gujaratis murrabo-fy all sorts of vegetables and fruits – gourds, gooseberries (aamla), apples, lime peels… throwing in peanuts and chironji for good measure. My granny kept it real by making it only with raw mango and her set of ingredients – too complex a challenge to quantify.

Recently my parents visited me in Dubai. My mum brought along a car battery sized amount of store bought murabba which sat in my fridge for all of three weeks, being licked clean to a point where washing its container was perhaps unnecessary. No one can replicate my grandmother’s murabba but having no choice, anything reminding me of it, and her, is lovingly welcome.

Here is a small recipe of a fresh tomato pickle I make at home, nothing even close in taste to a murabba, but I enjoy it with samosas or bhajias in the evening. I hope you do too.

Ingredients:
4 medium fresh tomatoes, chopped, deseeded and skins removed
a teaspoon of cumin seeds
a teaspoon of black mustard seeds
one large green chilli slit length-wise
pinch of asafetida (hing)
half teaspoon of grated ginger
8-10 dry (or 5-6 fresh) whole curry leaves
one teaspoon refined sugar
half teaspoon salt
1-2 tablespoons lime juice
2 tablespoons groundnut oil

Method:
Heat the oil in a small saucepan until very hot, add the cumin and mustard seeds, wait for them to sizzle and pop. Add the green chilli and asafetida and stir. Reduce the heat to medium. Add the ginger and curry leaves, leave to emulsify, about one minute. Make sure not to burn the curry leaves.

Now add the fresh tomatoes and allow to cook for ten minutes on low heat until a thick paste forms, stir occasionally. Add the sugar, salt and lime juice toward the end of cooking time. Adjust to taste. If you like it more spicy, add one more green chilli at the time of tempering.

Allow to cool completely and use after a day. This fresh pickle can be stored for up to a week in the refrigerator.

About the author:
Peri Desai reinvents herself every couple of years. In previous versions she has been a print, radio and photo journalist, a communications expert, a media manager, and a published poet. She has worked for The Times of India, the BBC World Service and the United Nations. Her stints have seen her live in Mumbai, London, New York and Reykjavik.

She continues to be a mother, a daughter, a sister, a writer and a lover of house plants and pets. When she isn’t traipsing off to different corners of the globe,you’ll find her in Dubai, home for the last few years. But that may change at amoment’s notice.

Big butts are a thing these days. A decade ago Jennifer Lopez made that abundantly desirable and recently Nicki Minaj sang to the world that Sir Mix-a-lot was not lying, packing much back, like Kim Kardashian, is attractive.

As someone who has never been wanting on the more classically envied large boob department, having a big ass as well was something I tried to regularly ignore. Ever since I hit an age where I could wear a bra, I have been what is now politely termed as “curvy”. I grew up with multiple body insecurities – from my telephone wire curly hair, to the generous size of my breasts to a bum which poked out and away from a thankfully small waist. In the 90s, while I was being an insecure teenager, no one pointed out that these were desirable features, since straightness and stick figureness was trendy.

Due to my abject disagreement with my natural curves at that time, I worked out two hours a day at a local gym, became an aerobics instructor and developed, for lack of a better way to describe it, “gentler curvature”. At some point I started to accept that I was never going to be skinny. My cheeks glowed pink, my breasts finally fitted into a bra I could buy off the rack at a regular lingerie store (as opposed to seeking out shops on the annual holiday in Europe, hidden gems in the cobbled backstreets of expensive commercial areas, with deep plush carpets, hushed service and ornate gilded mirrors in dressing space separated only by thick damask curtains – these had parachute sized underwear) and wearing jeans didn’t require jumping up and down three times, lying down once, all so the zipper would painfully inch its way up. But it didn’t last. How could it have since it never made me content?

A restless spirit, I studied and worked in many parts of the world, seeking mind-expanding adventure. It also proved fatally body expanding as disciplined exercise and healthy eating gave way to curiosity about local cuisine, the frequent foray into recreational drink and drug and the deluded thought that walking the streets of London, New York or even Jersey’s little capital St. Helier, was more than enough exercise for my very stubborn body fat. While all along, underneath those heaving boobs, my heart silently craved acceptance, just as I was – slim or fat.

I welcomed the noughties attitudes to body image – several celebrities finally seemed to endorse large body parts (not bodies though) and the trend of accepting juiciness was finally going up. Hell, Spanish fashion shows even showcased designer clothing on girls slightly heavier than the regular clotheshorses. I was now in my 30s, still struggling with wobbliness here and knobbliness there. It didn’t help that the husband I had at the time was an exercise freak and had fallen in love with the idea of a slimmer me. I had a baby and got heavier than he ever expected, unable to shed the excess weight completely. A part of him never got over it, feeling somehow betrayed at his fantasy gone awry.

It’s been heartening to see Tyra Banks being inclusive of assorted shaped women in her competitive show, even if it is for better viewership and ratings. It’s great to read articles on Facebook of curvy models making it into mainstream fashion showcases. Reading blogs by women who finally have made peace with themselves by embracing rather than just accepting their bodies, is no longer a trend, but is here to stay. Progress toward this is slow, but positively steady and gives me hope for a future where we don’t base our image constructs on what media tells us, whose “anaconda” wants what, insecure boyfriends and husbands and even parents who send the message to their child that their (and/or a future partner’s) love is directly proportional to the weight on a scale or the size of their undies.

The terms “plus-sized” and “larger” frustrate me. Larger compared to whom? Plus-er in size in relation to what exactly? Can’t we just have sizes and leave it at that? And what about the “skinny bitches” ? Do we need to label everyone? Isn’t it the same for women who are very thin? An eating disorder, a deep identity crises when looking at your reflection –is that just the right of an over-weight person? Our world is flooded with young people who are bulimic and anemic, young people who are starving themselves to reach a target weight regardless of their shape, height, or genetic make up.

Funny woman Mindy Kaling came on a talk show once and spoke about all those who disparaged her size. She seemed unfazed as she explained that it’s who she is – she eats well, she exercises and her body doesn’t change as a result of it. She’s healthy and happy. Shouldn’t we all aim for that? A healthy happiness (or a happy healthiness). While the song is pretty catchy, and she’s all about the bass, no treble, did Meghan Trainor’s mother tell her to be happy about her size because really it was men who after all liked to hold a little more at night? Couldn’t she have told her to just be happy for herself, possessing a wonderful booty, and that excellent voice, for all that she encompassed in her juicy glory? Did she still need validation from a man?

I just turned 40 a few weeks ago. It’s taken a long time to recognize that I don’t need to skip meals, or starve myself to be a better me. I don’t need to work out like a fiend, I don’t need to fit into clothes I wore several years ago, on the off chance I’ll be ten kilos lighter. I was who I was back then, even as I am who I am right now, plus or minus the weight. In fact, I am more beautiful now, with my absolute belief I am enough. Confidence is very attractive regardless of the quantity of bass or treble.

Dubai, 30 January 2015

A sea of bubbles in my bathtub
Expanding like a restless wind
Into more shapes
A deer
A mountain
A recessed cavity filled with yesterday’s secret
Now revealed
Now no more news

I part them with my fingers
A small tunnel
Of foam forms and collapses
Almost instantly
Almost too soon
Even before I have had a chance to peep through to the other side
To see the rainbow light of a million soapsuds

The froth whispers noisily
Breaking in my ear
With the promise of appearing again
Somewhere else
Moving from my chin to my feet
Dancing between my toes
Sticking on my nose

The bubbles are happy
They do not mind merging and emerging
Suddenly leaving
Reappearing anew
With altered personalities
Me and the bubbles I sit with
So very different
Still good friends

Reyk, Oct 11 2005