If only I had known it would be the last time I saw Grandma alive, I would have stayed longer in her warm, spice-scented kitchen. The air always smelled of turmeric, mustard oil, and dried chilies. Jars lined the shelves like silent witnesses.

That afternoon, she handed me a faded, handwritten recipe. Her fingers were wrinkled and yellowed by turmeric.

“Today we make gooseberry pickle,” she announced.

The instructions were simple: wash and dry the gooseberries, prick them carefully with a needle, coat them with salt, turmeric, and chili powder, then toss them into heated mustard oil. Let it cool, then store it in one of these jars.  

“We could just buy the pickle at our neighborhood grocery store,” I muttered. “It would be easier.”

For a moment, the silence in the kitchen simmered even more than the mustard seeds sputtered in the hot oil. I caught something flicker across her face—hurt, quickly masked by sternness.

“These things are important. You wouldn’t understand,” she said.

When I reached for the bowl of gooseberries, I knocked it over. The gooseberries were scattered across the tiled floor, rolling into corners like small green marbles. Grandma let out a sharp breath.

“You are careless. At fifteen, you can’t afford to behave this way.” She reprimanded me.

“I didn’t mean to,” I shot back. “You act like this is a crime. It’s just fruit.”

The heated argument escalated.

Her voice was sharp, like those needles pricking tender gooseberry skins. She emphasized tradition, patience, and attention. I told her she was stuck in old-age rituals.   

The mustard seeds cracked violently in the oil, trying to drown out the argument neither of us could win.

Grandma clicked her tongue softly, turned back to the stove, and continued stirring the oil mixture. I saw her shoulders drop. The silence lingered. Eventually, we stopped speaking altogether.

A week later, she was gone.

Twenty years later, the memory clung to me—pungent and sour, impossible to wash away. Sometimes I still smelled mustard oil when I passed a kitchen like hers. I regretted leaving the gooseberries on the floor, scattered and uncollected. If only I could go back in time, I would pick up every fallen gooseberry and listen to her without arguing. I would hold her turmeric-stained hands and say I’m sorry—until even the kitchen forgave me.

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Swetha is an MFA Graduate from the University of San Francisco. The author of a memoir and three chapbooks, her works have appeared in Had, Bending Genres, Ghost Parachute, Gone Lawn, and others. A member of the Writers Grotto, her stories have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net, Best Small Fiction, and Best Microfiction. She can be found on @swethaamit on Instagram.