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The pickle makers of Malmoh: PHERAN DIARIES – 2

9 March 2025

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The air in Malmoh would take on a different scent as autumn prepared to fold into winter – a mix of ripe vegetables, mustard oil, and the sharp tang of freshly ground spices. It was the season of pickling, an unspoken tradition that bound the women of the village in a quiet camaraderie. In every household, aanchar was not just food; it was a ritual, a labor of love that promised bursts of flavor through the long, harsh winters when fresh greens would disappear under feet of snow. And among all the pickles made in Malmoh, none was more cherished than monjhe aanchar – the kohlrabi pickle, a delicacy that could transform the simplest of meals into a feast.

The process began with the selection of the nout (a large earthenware pot with a wide mouth) or a tschod (a small earthenware pot with a narrow mouth) – the two types of pitchers generally used for fermenting pickles. These weren’t just any vessels; they were handcrafted by local potters, their insides glazed with a secret blend of sun-dried clay and river sand to keep the contents cool and fresh.

The women of the house, usually led by the grandmother or the eldest aunt, took charge of the pickling process. Freshly harvested monjhe were the star of the show. They were peeled, sliced into thick wedges, and left to dry on wicker baskets under the sun for a few hours or even days – just enough to remove excess moisture but not so long that they lost their crunch.

The spice mix was prepared with almost sacred precision. The real secret, however, lay in the mustard oil – smoky, golden, and poured in generous amounts after being heated to just the right temperature to remove its raw bitterness. P Mark was the undisputed king.

Pickles in Malmoh were covered using an age-old technique. First, a thick cotton cloth, often an old muslin piece, was placed over the mouth of the nout. It was then tied tightly with a rope, creating an airtight seal. Some families took it a step further, applying a layer of mud and cow dung over the top, which hardened into a natural insulation layer, keeping the contents safe for months.

These pitchers were not stored on kitchen shelves but were placed at kaeni (attic) or dabbi-peth (on the balcony), in some cases, buried halfway into the ground in a dark corner of the house. The logic was simple – cool, undisturbed spaces allowed the flavors to mature, while the clay vessel’s porous nature enabled just the right amount of slow fermentation.

Monjhe aanchar was not a pickle for the impatient. It took a minimum of two to four weeks before the first taste test. The real magic happened over months, as the monjhe softened slightly, absorbing the mustardy tang and the deep heat of the spices.

The first taste was always ceremonial. On a cold winter afternoon, grandmother would open the pitcher, scooping out a few glistening pieces of pickle with an old wooden ladle. The monjhe, now golden with turmeric and deeply infused with mustard oil, would be placed on a plate beside a steaming pile of haakh-batta – simple collard greens with rice.

The first bite was electrifying – a sharp burst of mustard, the mellow sweetness of aged monjhe, and a slow, lingering heat that spread warmth through the body. No store-bought pickle could ever match the depth of flavor that came from a season’s worth of patience.

Every family had its own superstitions attached to pickling. In some houses, the nout was never opened before the first snowfall, as it was believed that the chill in the air gave the pickle its true character. In others, pickling was never done on Tuesdays or Saturdays, considered inauspicious days for anything that needed fermentation.

Before sealing the pitcher, elders often muttered prayers – “Khas ba khas, yas poshakh te tass (may your fermentation enthrall to last one and all). Some even tied a small red thread around the pitcher’s neck to ward off the evil eye, believing that a stranger’s envious glance could spoil the pickle. Everyone believed in evil eye – aech lagin or nazar lagin.

The first opening of the nout was no less than a mini celebration. Elders would call the children over, teasing them with exaggerated sniffing gestures before scooping out the first piece. The youngest child always got the first bite – it was a silent way of ensuring that prosperity and abundance would flow into the house.

Every household in Malmoh made their own pickles, each with slight variations in spice blends and techniques. But today, the art of traditional pickling is slowly vanishing. However, pickles made by two brothers would be the center of attention. That was only until some sinner got a whiff of Nilon’s, and slowly and slowly homemade pickles began to disappear.

In many ways, the disappearance of homemade pickling mirrors the larger shift in Kashmir’s rural lifestyle. The communal essence of the process – where neighbors shared spice mixes, and grandmothers exchanged tips over steaming cups of noon chai – has been replaced by solitary, transactional living.

Today, the courtyards of Malmoh no longer echo with the laughter of women preparing pickles together. The old nouts lie forgotten in dusty corners, replaced mostly by steel and aluminium. The younger generation, accustomed to instant flavors, doesn’t have the patience to wait for months for a jar of pickle to mature.

Even the mustard oil used in modern pickles doesn’t carry the same smoky depth as before. It has lost its aroma that we were brought up with. With each passing year, another part of our heritage fades. Yet, somewhere in the heart of an old home in Malmoh which is yet to be built, an elder might still lift the lid of a forgotten nout, letting the sharp, spicy scent of monjhe aanchar escape – bringing back memories of a time when winters were harsher, but the warmth of tradition kept everyone together. When all this happens – which never will, something might bring back a piece of Malmoh’s lost past.

An author, a communications strategist, Dr Sanjay Parva was a debut contestant in 2024 Assembly elections in J&K.