The Jar of Chutney Nobody Would Open After the Wake

The jar is on the shelf. It is small and brown. The label says: Nani's Mango Chutney. The writing is old. The ink is faded. My name is Dev. I am ten years old. Today is a sad day. Nani died last week. Many people came to our house. They ate. They talked. They cried. Now the house is quiet. But the jar is still there.

I look at it. I want to open it. Mango chutney is my favorite. Nani made it every summer. It is sweet and a little spicy. It is very good. I go to my mother. 'Mama,' I say. 'Can I open the jar?' Mama looks at the jar. She does not speak. 'Not today,' she says. Her voice is soft.

I go to my uncle. His name is Ravi. 'Uncle Ravi, can I open the chutney?' Uncle Ravi shakes his head. 'No, Dev.' 'But why?' He looks at the jar. 'Because then it is gone,' he says. 'It is the last thing she made.' I look at the jar again. I understand now. The jar is not just food. It is Nani. I sit near the shelf. I do not open the jar. I look at it for a long time. That feels right.