Stolen pickles

One of the most delicious tastes of my life came to me through stolen pickles. It’s a taste that still lingers in my mouth. Memories of my stolen binges make my taste buds come alive in longing for those magnificent pickles.
I grew up in a railway colony in Samastipur, a small town in Bihar, known for its big railway township. People employed in the local railway offices came from different parts of India, making it a middle-class-cosmopolitan little town.
My best friends were three brothers who lived three houses down the lane. I was so close to them, I needed no excuse to be at their place. During summer vacations, all the three brothers used to take afternoon naps, while kakima (their mother) slept in the other room. I hardly used to sleep in daytime. Feeling bored, I used to go to their place and wake one of them up from the window, not wanting to knock the front door and disturb kakima. He would quietly open the door and let me in. I would then just lie down on the bed and chat, while being hugely aware of varieties of pickles drying in the sun in the varanda. Soon my urge would get the better of me. My friends would either fall asleep by then or be party to my plans for the afternoon. Though they would be scared of kakima’s wrath, I would convince them to join me. Then I would get to where the pickles were and take fistfuls of pickles and gorge on them. I loved the ones made of a special kind of dried round plums with dark brown peels. But the ones I am talking about here were made of tamarind in a special concoction of spices that took away the sourness and gave them an exotic, delicious taste. I would just stuff them in my mouth, letting them slowly melt inside; letting the juices slowly seep down my throat. Oh, it was absolute bliss. Heavenly.
I have never tasted anything so magical later in my life. And I don’t think I ever will. Some of the greatest things in life are lost on you forever, along with childhood.