LFC MUMBAI| FEBRUARY 2026
I had seen it all my life, but I don’t think I really noticed it until I was in college.
It was always there in my grandmother’s kitchen. Same place, same shelf. For decades. A tiny mortar and pestle that looked almost ornamental, unlike the heavy ones you use for making chutneys or to mince garlic. This one was delicate. The pestle is thin, like a wand, the tip barely wider than a fingernail. The bowl flares out softly, like a little goblet. You could not crush cardamom in it even if you tried—it is far too slight for that.
Ba used it only for saffron.
Every time she made her saffron (kesar) extract, she would take a few strands and place them in the mortar. Then she would add a few drops of milk and begin to pound. Not aggressively, just steady, patient tapping. Slowly, the milk would turn yellow, then a deeper yellow. It would thicken slightly, becoming something between liquid and paste.
Parvati—whom I grew up calling Ba—made sure that pasty kesar milk went into everything. Sheera every second day. A simple vegetable biryani finished with saffron milk. Chai on mornings she felt indulgent. At night, she would have kesar milk before bed. In our home, there was always something to elevate by adding kesar.
And why wouldn’t there be? My grandfather, Devishankar, was in the spice business. Our family traded spices out of Mumbai’s Crawford Market, and later APMC in Navi Mumbai. As the story goes, long before I was born, or even my parents were married, a trader from somewhere in the Arab region brought this small mortar and pestle set and said it was meant exclusively for saffron. My grandfather bought it because his wife loved kesar, and that’s how this mortar and pestle first entered our home.
It must be at least 50 years old, or possibly older. There is neither any inscription, nor any date carved into it. It looks like brass, maybe pittal. Plain. Unadorned. My mother says Ba used to wash it normally, nothing special. But when something is used every day, it maintains itself naturally. It is when you stop using it that its age begins to show.
After Ba passed away, it remained in that same spot. My mother would use it occasionally, but not the way Ba did. When I read that we could bring an heirloom to the LFC gathering, it came to me immediately. I went to my mother’s house, opened the cupboard without asking her, and there it was, exactly where it had always been.
My mother laughed and said, take it if you want, but don’t lose it. It is Ba’s memory.
I took it to the meetup almost casually. I thought it was just a small, ordinary kitchen object. It was only when I began to speak about it that I noticed people leaning in.
It was strange to see others fascinated by something I had grown up around so casually. You don’t always realise the value of what is sitting quietly in your own kitchen.
Now it is with me. I don’t have grand plans for it—I am not using saffron every day the way Ba did. Diets and habits change with time, but I still love kesar. And more than that, this little mortar and pestle set carries her rhythm. The sound of tapping, the colour of milk turning gold, the insistence that sweetness belongs in daily life.
I am just keeping it safe. For Ba.