One summer, when mangoes were in season, Kamala Bai decided to make her famous mango pickle. She had been making it since her youth, and neighbors often said, “No one can beat Kamala Bai’s pickle!”

Krishna Rao, sitting on the veranda, teased her.
“Arrey, what is so special in your pickle? Too much chili, too much oil. Anyone can make it.”

Kamala Bai put her hands on her hips.
“Really? If you think it’s so easy, why don’t you try?”

Krishna Rao, though old, still had mischief in his bones. “Fine! Tomorrow I’ll make my own pickle. Let’s see whose is better.”

The next day, the tiny kitchen turned into a battlefield.

Kamala Bai chopped mangoes with precision, muttering, “Men think they know everything.” Krishna Rao sat on a stool, adding masalas randomly. He tasted the chili powder, coughed, and added more salt to hide his mistake.

By noon, both jars of pickle sat on the counter one neat and aromatic, the other looking suspiciously uneven.

News of the “pickle war” spread quickly. Neighbors gathered, eager to taste. The village children were the happiest—they got free snacks with pickle!

Everyone tasted Kamala Bai’s pickle first. It was spicy, tangy, and delicious as always. They nodded in approval.

Then came Krishna Rao’s turn. The pickle was salty in one bite, sour in another, and so hot that one man’s eyes watered.

Yet, strangely, the crowd burst out laughing. “This is not pickle, this is adventure!” someone joked.