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The Pickle Jar
I have always loved pickles right from when I can remember. I loved it so much that for my 8th birthday, my Grandmother gifted me a jar of pickles with a note saying ‘hope it lasts forever’. i was very excited and as expected, within no time, it was a pickle jar with the pickle in it all finished. One day, as I was having my breakfast, I stared at the freshly washed pickle jar resting/placed on the table and suddenly remembered my Grandma’s note. I promptly picked up the jar and went up to my Dad and asked him “Baba what could I do with this jar now?” My father looked at the jar and after some thought replied, “Why don’t you make this your piggybank?” “ Use it to start saving the coins you get and when the jar gets full, we’ll go and put all the money in the bank. So when you grow up, you can use the money for something you like or wish to do”. I loved the idea and promptly acted on it.
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Baba would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They ended with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.
When the jar was filled, Baba would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Baba and me on the seat of his van. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Baba would look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son.
You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back." Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.
"These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me." We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Baba always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlour handed Baba his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again."
He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My father was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Anjali about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Baba continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.
The first Diwali after our daughter Kaavya was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Ma and Baba sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Kaavya began to whimper softly, and Anjali took her from Dad's arms. "She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Anjali came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Kaavya back to Baba before taking my hand and leading me into the room.
"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins.
With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Baba, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt.
Neither one of us could speak.
The salty coffee
He met her on a party. She was so outstanding, many guys chasing after her, while he was so normal, nobody paid attention to him. At the end of the party, he invited her to have coffee with him, she was surprised, but due to being polite, she promised. They sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything and she felt too uncomfortable. She thought, please, let me go home, when suddenly he asked the waiter:
"Would you please give me some salt? I’d like to put it in my coffee."
Everybody stared at him, so strange! His face turned red, but, still, he put the salt in his coffee and drank it.
She asked him curiously: why do you have this hobby?
He replied: " when I was a little boy, I was living near the sea, I liked playing in the sea, I could feel the taste of the sea, just like the taste of the salty coffee. Now every time I have the salty coffee, I always think of my childhood, think of my hometown, I miss my hometown so much, I miss my parents who are still living there “.
While saying that tears filled his eyes. She was deeply touched.
That’s his true feeling, from the bottom of his heart. A man who can tell out his homesickness, he must be a man who loves home, cares about home, has responsibility of home. Then she also started to speak, spoke about her faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was a really nice talk, also a beautiful beginning of their story. They continued to date. She found that actually he was a man who meets all her demands; he had tolerance, was kind hearted, warm, careful. He was such a good person but she almost missed him!
Thanks to his salty coffee! Then the story was just like every beautiful love story, the princess married to the prince, and then they were living the happy life… And, every time she made coffee for him, she put some salt in the coffee, as she knew that’s the way he liked it.
After 40 years, he passed away, left her a letter which said: " My dearest, please forgive me, forgive my whole life lie. This was the only lie I said to you—the salty coffee. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous at that time, actually I wanted some sugar, but I said salt it was hard for me to change so I just went ahead. I never thought that could be the start of our communication! I tried to tell you the truth many times in my life, but I was too afraid to do that, as I have promised not to lie to you for anything.
Now I’m dying, and I’m afraid of nothing so I tell you the truth: I don’t like the salty coffee, what a strange bad taste. But I have had the salty coffee for my whole life! Since I knew you, I never feel sorry for anything I do for you. Having you with me is my biggest happiness for my whole life. If I can live for the second time, still want to know you and have you for my whole life, even though I have to drink the salty coffee again”.
Her tears made the letter totally wet.
Someday, someone asked her: what’s the taste of salty coffee? It’s sweet. She replied.
I have always loved pickles right from when I can remember. I loved it so much that for my 8th birthday, my Grandmother gifted me a jar of pickles with a note saying ‘hope it lasts forever’. i was very excited and as expected, within no time, it was a pickle jar with the pickle in it all finished. One day, as I was having my breakfast, I stared at the freshly washed pickle jar resting/placed on the table and suddenly remembered my Grandma’s note. I promptly picked up the jar and went up to my Dad and asked him “Baba what could I do with this jar now?” My father looked at the jar and after some thought replied, “Why don’t you make this your piggybank?” “ Use it to start saving the coins you get and when the jar gets full, we’ll go and put all the money in the bank. So when you grow up, you can use the money for something you like or wish to do”. I loved the idea and promptly acted on it.
The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Baba would empty his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.
As a small boy I was always fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were dropped into the jar. They ended with a merry jingle when the jar was almost empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom window.
When the jar was filled, Baba would sit at the kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to the bank. Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production. Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed between Baba and me on the seat of his van. Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Baba would look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you out of the textile mill, son.
You're going to do better than me. This old mill town's not going to hold you back." Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier, he would grin proudly.
"These are for my son's college fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me." We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Baba always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream parlour handed Baba his change, he would show me the few coins nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start filling the jar again."
He always let me drop the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters," he said. "But you'll get there. I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished college and took a job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents, I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose and had been removed. A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always stood. My father was a man of few words, and never lectured me on the values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more eloquently than the most flowery of words could have done.
When I married, I told my wife Anjali about the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than anything else, how much my dad had loved me. No matter how rough things got at home, Baba continued to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.
The first Diwali after our daughter Kaavya was born, we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Ma and Baba sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns cuddling their first grandchild. Kaavya began to whimper softly, and Anjali took her from Dad's arms. "She probably needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my parents' bedroom to diaper her. When Anjali came back into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes. She handed Kaavya back to Baba before taking my hand and leading me into the room.
"Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser. To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins.
With a gamut of emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I looked up and saw that Baba, carrying Jessica, had slipped quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same emotions I felt.
Neither one of us could speak.
The salty coffee
He met her on a party. She was so outstanding, many guys chasing after her, while he was so normal, nobody paid attention to him. At the end of the party, he invited her to have coffee with him, she was surprised, but due to being polite, she promised. They sat in a nice coffee shop, he was too nervous to say anything and she felt too uncomfortable. She thought, please, let me go home, when suddenly he asked the waiter:
"Would you please give me some salt? I’d like to put it in my coffee."
Everybody stared at him, so strange! His face turned red, but, still, he put the salt in his coffee and drank it.
She asked him curiously: why do you have this hobby?
He replied: " when I was a little boy, I was living near the sea, I liked playing in the sea, I could feel the taste of the sea, just like the taste of the salty coffee. Now every time I have the salty coffee, I always think of my childhood, think of my hometown, I miss my hometown so much, I miss my parents who are still living there “.
While saying that tears filled his eyes. She was deeply touched.
That’s his true feeling, from the bottom of his heart. A man who can tell out his homesickness, he must be a man who loves home, cares about home, has responsibility of home. Then she also started to speak, spoke about her faraway hometown, her childhood, her family. That was a really nice talk, also a beautiful beginning of their story. They continued to date. She found that actually he was a man who meets all her demands; he had tolerance, was kind hearted, warm, careful. He was such a good person but she almost missed him!
Thanks to his salty coffee! Then the story was just like every beautiful love story, the princess married to the prince, and then they were living the happy life… And, every time she made coffee for him, she put some salt in the coffee, as she knew that’s the way he liked it.
After 40 years, he passed away, left her a letter which said: " My dearest, please forgive me, forgive my whole life lie. This was the only lie I said to you—the salty coffee. Remember the first time we dated? I was so nervous at that time, actually I wanted some sugar, but I said salt it was hard for me to change so I just went ahead. I never thought that could be the start of our communication! I tried to tell you the truth many times in my life, but I was too afraid to do that, as I have promised not to lie to you for anything.
Now I’m dying, and I’m afraid of nothing so I tell you the truth: I don’t like the salty coffee, what a strange bad taste. But I have had the salty coffee for my whole life! Since I knew you, I never feel sorry for anything I do for you. Having you with me is my biggest happiness for my whole life. If I can live for the second time, still want to know you and have you for my whole life, even though I have to drink the salty coffee again”.
Her tears made the letter totally wet.
Someday, someone asked her: what’s the taste of salty coffee? It’s sweet. She replied.
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Latest page update: made by veryme
, Mar 24 2009, 10:50 AM EDT
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