Aritra Raj
Atlas carefully noticed the jar that his mother brought with her during dinner. It looked familiar. He remembered seeing similar jars in his childhood, which his mother used to keep organised in the glass shelves of her kitchen. As this medium-sized white jar now lay on his kitchen counter, like an old relic, he couldn’t help going back in time. He glanced at the label his mother had taped herself, her handwriting still looping in the same way it used to.
Observing his solemn expression, Atlas’ mother pushed the jar towards him and said, “I made fish pickle for you. You used to love them when you were younger. Taste it and tell me if it still tastes the same.”
“You didn’t have to. It takes so much time and effort. Moreover, fish pickle is now readily available at the stores.” Atlas murmured, prying the lid open.
The aroma of mustard oil, fenugreek, and fish took over his kitchen and dining area.
He got up and busied himself in his kitchen. “Dinner will be ready in twenty,” he informed his ma. Bi-weekly dinner was a ritual that Atlas and his ma had developed over the last eight months. He cooked at this rented apartment, they talked while they ate and cherished each other’s company. So much time had passed, so many moments missed and so many details had to be discussed.
Tonight, the jar sat between them like a third presence. Bold. Unrelenting.
They ate in the dim light of Atlas A’s apartment, the ceiling fan ticking slowly above them. Atlas A had made dal, rice and spicy aubergine fry—his own take on the traditional Bengali recipes.
The jar of fish pickle stayed unopened through most of their meal.
“How’s everything at the diner?” Atlas asked, licking his fingers, without meeting his mother’s eyes.
“Your father’s still experimenting with breakfast specials,” his ma replied, rolling her eyes slightly. “Your brother handles the register now, and your sister is trying to make the place look like one of those cafés with bookshelves and flowers.”
After a little pause she added, “And I go there everyday. I try to fill in wherever I can.”
Atlas A smiled faintly. “Sounds good, great actually.”
She looked at him for a moment too long, trying to fathom what’s going on in his mind.
“Why don’t you pay a visit? They’d like it.” she gathered the courage to suggest, finally.
Atlas kept his eyes on his plate. “It’s their place now. I will continue to help from a distance.”
“Don’t say help,” she said. “You keep the whole diner running. I know but not everyone knows or acknowledges that it’s your trucks that bring the vegetables and other resources before dawn.”
Atlas didn’t answer. He rarely explained his work, his business.He never made a big deal about how he’d built a small logistics team from scratch; how he scaled his small business to handle supplies to restaurants, bakeries, and his family’s diner as well.To him, it was a kind of silent repayment.
Mother’s gaze softened. “Your father doesn’t understand why you stay away. But I think I do.”
Atlas A looked up, not knowing what to say or what to expect.
The jar of fish pickle finally made its appearance halfway through their dinner. His mother spooned some onto her plate, letting the oil stain her plate. She pushed the jar towards him.
“Take some,” she said. “Tell me if it’s as good as I remember making it.”
He tasted it, closing his eyes for a fraction too long. It was exactly the same as when he was a little boy, stealing spoonfuls from the pantry every now and then. Back then, his mother’s pickles were the one constant with most of their meals at home and also at the diner. They didn’t change with the season.
“It’s perfect, just the way it always used to be,” he said with a smile.
For some time, they ate without speaking. Then Atlas’ mother said, “You never told me why you left that second time.”
Atlas froze. He took a sip of water and finally muttered “You know why.”
“I know you and your father fought,” she said. “But that wasn’t the sole reason.”
Atlas placed his spoon down. “He was convinced that I was wasting my life. And maybe I was. He defied my choices. I was tired of explaining my need to explore beyond the diner. Beyond the family boundaries. I felt stifled.”
“You were only twenty-one,” she said. “Everyone wastes a little at that age.”
He let out a short laugh. “No, not according to him. I was tired of being the elder son, being projected as the A* son. I am happy being an ordinary person. I never felt the need to carry the burden of the Adhikari clan legacy. I always wanted to carve my own path, my own niche. I am happy being just Atlas, or Atlas A.”
It was a volley of information for his mother and she was at a loss for words. In silence, they cleared the table and cleaned the plates together. She washed, he dried.
As the warm water ran over her hands, she said, “When you disappeared, I kept making the fish pickle.”
Atlas looked at her, her hands—wrinkled with time.
“It sounds stupid,” she continued. “But it was my way of pretending you’d come back. I’d put a jar aside for you every year. Then, after a while, I stopped. It hurt too much to keep them in the cupboard.”
He set down the plate he was drying. He looked at his mom, took her hand in his, and said, “I’m sorry. I was selfish.”
She shook her head. “I am not seeking any apology. I’m telling you this because when you invited me here for the first time, took the first step towards reconciling after so many years, I made a fresh batch of fish pickle. After many years. I wasn’t sure if you would still like it. If you would eat it, if you would even taste it. Today, I mustered all the courage and brought it along with me.”
She continued. “After you left a decade back, your stubbornness made me realise you are, after all, your father’s son, but maybe not his kind. You are my boy, but not mine to keep. I tried to accept that and move ahead,” she said, looking outside the kitchen window.
“Here ma, tea is ready for you.” Both mother and son moved to the couch with their mugs of Darjeeling tea.
The jar of fish pickle lay still on the kitchen counter.
Outside, the city hummed with traffic.
“I don’t need the inheritance,” Atlas said after a long silence.
“I know.”
“It’s not about money.”
“I know that too.”
He glanced at her. “Then why does he keep offering?”
“Because it’s the only way he knows to say sorry,” she said. “He won’t use words.”
Atlas smiled and shook his head. “Now I know where I get it from.”
Mother laughed softly, with a hint of regret. Regret of lost time.
It was past nine when she stood to leave. Atlas walked her to the door, carrying the jar for her.
“Keep it,” she said
He hesitated, then nodded.
Just before she entered the elevator, she turned back. “Next time, I’ll bring your favourite fish curry.”
“Deal,” he said.
Atlas went back to the kitchen and opened the jar again, just to breathe it in. He took a spoon, dipped it into the oil-rich mixture, and tasted it once more. The flavours filled his mouth and he closed his eyes.
For the first time in years, he thought maybe, just maybe, he might walk into the diner one morning. He couldn’t help but revel in the possibility. Not to reclaim anything. Just to see his ma there, with a smile, behind the counter. He knew she will always keep aside a jar labelled Atlas A for him, just for him.
Aritra is a stormtrooper parent and a committed learner with a deep passion for teaching, writing, traveling, and continuous growth. She lives by the belief that “reading is essential for those who seek to rise above the ordinary.” A lectiophile, Aritra thrives on stories—in books, films, and the day to day narratives of evolution and transformation. Writing, for her, is catharsis – a way to make sense of the world and help others do the same. With a strong growth mindset, she embraces unlearning and relearning as core to staying relevant in today’s world. As an educator and reading and writing coach, she enjoys mentoring students in identifying their voice. Also her forte lies in designing curriculum and leading workshops that spark curiosity about self and the world around. Currently, she is dabbling with new interests such as AI and the keyboard. Aritra is driven by the joy of learning and the desire to make a meaningful impact. Instagram: @aritrabasuraj LinkedIn: Aritra Raj
I can totally relate to the story,would love to read more of Aritra’s writing in the new future…More strength to her powers of the written word!