India, Oct. 29 -- Flashback to the early years of marriage, I was enjoying living on a farm in rural Punjab with the seasonal crop and fruit supply that was a regular feature at home, varieties of citrus fruit in winter, seasonal vegetables all year round from the kitchen garden and mangoes during the summer. With the mango season came the process of making a variety of chutneys, squashes and pickles from the harvest. This was at least a 10-day process that involved washing the fruit and sun drying it, the veranda of our house was covered in various shades and sizes of mangoes. Next came the process of peeling and cutting (various sizes depending on the pickle to be made), and then the actual pickling process took place. The final product was then distributed to cousins and friends. The entire exercise was overseen by my husband's grandmother, instructing her troop of women from the village, whilst being involved in every part of the process, from buying the dry ingredients, measuring them, cooking the chutneys, sunning the pickles and packaging. I remember watching her with such awe, the energy, command and enthusiasm Beeji exuded was inspiring, but, there was a part of a 'young-me' (the arrogance of youth) that associated the process of pickle making with being domesticated - a chore that I thought only befitted typical housewives. When our grandmother passed on, my father-in-law asked me to help him oversee the pickling process the following summer; he wanted to carry on the tradition. Childishly, but politely I refused, making up an excuse to escape the task. To his credit, he took over the pickle-making baton with an understanding smile. In fact, Dad expanded the exercise to include bottling many other fruits and vegetables, and would make sure I had an unending supply of the mango pickle through the year; he knew I really relished it with meals. With age came the appreciation of slow-life, fresh, homegrown food and the whole farm-to-table concept is now an integrated part of our routine. This summer, Dad got home a few crates of unripe mangoes from the farm, telling us to "give them a few days and they'll be ready to eat". Looking at our green bounty, I couldn't resist the urge to put it to good use. I fished out a recipe for mango chutney my mother had given me and roped in my unwilling domestic help. We cleaned, peeled, and cut two large crates of mangoes. No food was made in our house that day because I had taken over the kitchen, measuring the correct proportion of dry ingredients with grated mangoes and painstakingly cooking the chutney. At the end of the day, with pride I showed my father-in-law a row of bottles filled with a sweet, golden-hued mixture. He took a few to give to his friends, which to my mind was a validation of my initial effort and entry into the world of pickle-making. I'm sure Beeji is watching from up there with her 'never say never' smile. In my student days, during lunch at a friend's house, her father asked me to try a pickle made from jackfruit; it was delicious. "This is special for me, it has a flavour of home, every year one of my maternal aunts sends us jars of pickles," uncle told us. Little did I know that a few years down the line, I'd get married into the same house, relish the condiments to my heart's content and even partake in the production process. Life sure has come a full circle....