A pickles way to the heart

It was a beautiful Summer Sunday afternoon. I had never ever met her before, I didn't even know her real  name. And until she opened that door into her little apartment, with that broad smile and those incredibly pleasing dimples; for me, Avira didn't exist. This story is not a love story, but it's a story about love, food and raw human connection.  

It was the year 2020, the world was struggling to cope up with the Covid pandemic and much of the planet didn't know what or when this was going to end. The pandemic not only destroyed economies but also human lives, both physically and mentally. The medical fraternity was in the forefront of the war and they took a lot of the weight upon themselves in giving back and saving mankind as a whole. 

I was busy searching for some online groups trying to find some useful resources for my friend's parents who were suffering from Covid and I desperately needed help and the only easiest way was to check much of the online platform for help.  Avira was a young doctor and we met in one such medical forum and got talking. Little did I know it was going to change from there on. We spoke much on covid, about the symptoms and much more on the effects of the pandemic as a whole.

I was always fascinated by the name Avira, it gave me a form of deep spell, a word that fills me with zen and love. Never really met someone with that name but when I finally did hear it as someone's name I was silently attracted to her already. It wasn't much for the first day, but by the end of that day, I was very curious to know the person behind that name, who is this, how would she be, and what does she hold. I remember that she was someone who selected her words very carefully, making sure nothing unnecessary was ever let loose and had this impeccable integrity towards her profession. 

Over the next few days, we chatted as much, but now it was less of Covid and more of each other, the world around us, friends, life and more about us. She was a woman of less words, she told me about her profession, the challenges she faced in the medical world, and finally about herself, her world for real.

She was married with two beautiful children. At first, I never expected to hear that, but in the end she disclosed even more information on what her world is all about and finally she told how she's been silently dealing with her single parenting juggling her medical profession and the life of her children. 

Avira, is an amazing woman. She reminded me of the ocean, she was vast, deep and yet soothing. Nobody could have ever guessed she held so much of a storm within her, but within her abyss, she held love and glory. She was full of life and yet the world had tainted her by giving back so little. With her husband walking away and children far away in her parents possession, she lived a lonely life, filling herself with the life and memories of her patients, making their stories, her own. We spoke for long hours, sometimes not realising that the sun had indeed stepped out for the day. I wouldn't say I found love or I wanted love from her, but there was a deep form of connection, something that made me ask more of her, dissolve into her life, see her life as if it's my own, live her wars and feel her pain. I know, it's a blessing and a curse, to feel everything so deeply. Her only ask in all of this, she never wanted to show herself or give her real name. 

And so for months we spoke, laughed, cried and deeply felt connected. A part of me always still intrigued by the fact that I have only heard this person on the other side, yet not seen her face or know her name. But somewhere I did realise that,  If we are to live life in harmony with the universe, we must all possess a powerful truth, a leap of faith in things, down to the abyss, into the dark of unknowns, in what the ancients used to call "fatum", what we currently now probably refer to as destiny. 

One day in the Summer of 20, Avira called and spoke to me. She said it was something important. I kept hearing and over the second minute she said she was leaving town for good. She was being posted in another part of the country, far far away. I know we have not met in person, but a part of me suddenly sank. I didn't know what to tell her. I know she changing or moving places is not going to make any difference in my life, but yet, I sank thinking a very special piece of me is going away far. Something in me did not want to give up on this connection, was unwilling to let go, wanted to fight to the very end. Where that part of me got the heart, I don’t know. How can I keep someone so special in the depths of my heart, yet not know her face or the least, her very name. I wanted to see her, see her bad. Finally one day, after sending her entire household on a van, she agreed to meet me, for one last time. 

And the day came, it was the end of a Summer sunday, when I landed in front of a door in an old apartment, a small purple light welcomed the entrance, as I rang the bell. I stopped myself to ring the bell again but my hand was just hovering over the button when the door slowly opened and there she was.  My eyes finally met the face that has been making me wonder all this long, face to all that voice, an identity to all that's real behind that voice. 'Finally... you've come' she said. Once I was in, I saw her face and I kept smiling indiscriminately, and even before I could speak the next word, she gave me a tight hug and kept looking at me in awe. We both sat down on the floor, as I swiveled my eyes to see all across the living room, the stickers and wall marks, probably left overs of her children while they lived here. We spoke, we laughed and we cherished every little detail we had ever spoken over all those months. 

I wasn't planning to stay long. The house was empty, sans life and with everything taken away, I didn't find any reason to stay other than watch her smiling for every question I ever asked of her. Suddenly, she stopped her conversation and asked me if I wanted to share lunch with her. She said this would be her final lunch in this house. She had married, raised two beautiful children, this house has seen it all and now I am leaving this forever now, would you share a small lunch with me, she asked. And so, in that tiny little apartment, with as much heart that was left of it, in that elusive, irrational way I have tried to understand the universe and its relationships, those few moments, I found refuge in her love.

As her final meal, Avira cooked a simple Dal fry and knowing I love eggs, she made a lovely omelette throwing in whatever she could and offered me in a small plate. As we started eating together, I asked her if she had anything extra, a little extra that could compliment the Dal. She immediately got up, ran towards the kitchen, rushed back and told me that she had two little pieces of the lemon pickle, which she made using her late grandmothers recipe, using lemons from their own garden. Being someone who's never fond of lemon pickles, I still offered to take it wondering if I would ever like it. As I ate and pinched my first taste of the pickle and tasted it, I stopped and closed my eyes for a moment. I had never tasted a pickle that good, let alone a lemon pickle that way. I was struggling hard to find a word to tell her what I really felt for that million flavors chasing down my tongue. 

Since she was 10, her grandmother collected porcelain jars specially to make pickles every year when the summer comes across, drying the lemons and the mangoes, giving them time to dry and ferment in the luscious mix of spices and oil kept over a years time in closed jars. She told me the whole story of how she learnt it over the years and how she kept it till the end in this very house she's moving away that night. We spent another hour together as the evening sun was gathering over the horizon when I said I would have to leave. 

Avira was leaving that night, leaving the house, her life, her memories of this place, decades of stories, all tucked into her for one last time. And before I walked to the door, I reached out to her and gave her something in her hand, it was a volcanic rock, something that I picked in the oceans of Indonesia. Told her this rocks are millions of years old, yet they carry the secrets of perseverance, rigidity but yet permeable to the elements, something I asked of her to be in life, come what may. And then I held her hand and asked if I can have just another taste of her lemon pickle. She smiled and answered 'it takes a whole summer to pack one'... if at all I make it to my lemons, and if at all I survive life, I will send you over some'. I took a small piece of paper and wrote down my address and asked her to keep it. We hugged each other, for she decided long ago that life was a long journey. She would be strong, and she would be weak, and both would be okay. I gave one last look at her and smiled goodbye, when she hugged me again and whispered into my ears; her name, for the first and the last time. We never heard from each other ever again.

On the Autumn of 21, on a rainy day I had my doorbell ring with a guy waiting to give me something. I went down to pick it and asked him who had sent what. He said he didn't know who, but said there was a name written on the box. I asked him the name. He replied 'Avira'. 

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It was a beautiful Summer Sunday afternoon. I had never ever met her before, I didn't even know her real  name. And until she opened that door into her little apartment, with that broad smile and those incredibly pleasing dimples; for me, Avira didn't exist. This story is not a love story, but it's a story about love, food and raw human connection.