Lemon Pickle

The summer nights in the small town of udupi felt neverending in the heat. The rusty ceiling fan rattled as my eyes circled around the edge of its blades.

Amma brought in a plateful of curd rice and sweet lemon pickle on the side. I gorge on the fistful of rice from my tiny palm, occasionally licking pickle from my fingers.
My ideal afternoons were hazy, always followed by a walk to the pond with Kamala. Kamala, a petite girl with mud-brown eyes and a shy smile. I spent most of my childhood with her. We would hang around trees, pluck mangoes, throw stones in the pond and nibble on bits of lemon and mangoes from the pickle jar that I secretly took from the kitchen. We would click our tongues together from the sourness.
"Khatta?"
"Meeta", she replied.
Many years later, living far away from home, I realised working in metropolitan city drained the living soul out of me. Everything seemed dull and mundane, unlike my bright childhood. Breaking away from the normal routine, I walked towards a street stall on the way to my office. It felt refreshing seeing colourful jars of lemon and mangoes.
"Lemon pickle with mangoes please," I asked, the shopkeeper glanced questioningly at my choice of combination. I take the mango and dip it in the lemon pickle and took a bite clicking my tongue from the burst of sourness.
" Khatta?" Asked the girl next to me with mud-brown eyes.
" Meeta" I replied, gladly reminiscing the flavour from my childhood.