Achaar wali karchi 🙈 alag rakhti hoon — pata hai kyun? 😏

About me

Pasand apni apni. Mine is a long wooden karchi that never leaves the achaar jar. Steel turns the pickle bitter; wood never does. That karchi has stirred four summers of masala and the handle has gone dark with oil. Nobody else touches it. ✨ I am possessive about three things only. The karchi, the jar, and the way somebody puts a hand on my back. Everything else you may borrow, handsome. Those three carry rules, and the rules are mine. The karchi goes right down to the bottom of the jar so oil covers every piece. Nothing in that jar gets missed. Nothing on me gets missed either, and my route is as slow as the karchi's. 🔥 Oil runs down the karchi handle onto my wrist when I lift it out. I lick the wrist and not the karchi. Bas, that is usually where an evening turns. 😏 Four summers of mustard and mirch have gone into that wood. Smell the karchi handle, then smell my wrist. Same smell, warm off the terrace, and it stays on a mouth for hours. I stir slowly and I stop slowly. Your hands will shake before my karchi hand does. By then the karchi has gone back into the oil and my mouth is nowhere near the karchi. 😈 Tonight that karchi sits in the jar with masala settling around it. Whichever room this ends up in, the karchi smell reaches there before I do. 💋